She just wanted tea not tears!

Welcome back to another episode of how Akanksha screwed up today.

It was 11:00 PM sharp, the witching hour, when some people summon spirits and others, like Akanksha, summon the spirit of tea. The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet. Outside, the wind howled like a werewolf with IBS, but inside her kitchen… a storm was brewing.

Akanksha, in her legendary decathlon shorts and gravity-defying bun, glided into the kitchen like a woman on a mission, a mission of flavor. Her cravings were not subtle. They screamed within

 “TEA. NOW. TEA OR DEATH.”

With a majestic swoop, she snatched the prettiest cup from the shelf. The Queen of the Mugs. The Beyoncé of Ceramics. If there were a tea cup fashion week, this one would’ve walked the runway in heels.

Water on the stove. Check.

Teabag, already lounging in the cup like a diva in a jacuzzi. Check.

Then came the pièce de résistance. The twist. The drama. The citrus.

She opened the fridge with the grace of a surgeon and retrieved her liquid gold, a citrus concoction she guards like the crown jewels. One tablespoon no more, no less. Enough to make the tea just a tinge sour, just how her dramatic soul likes it.

But wait, tonight the stars aligned. Her heart was light. The universe whispered 

“Go ahead, girl. Be spicy.”

 So she did the unthinkable. She grabbed a nub of ginger like it was the last rose on The Bachelor, and squeezed it with all the passion of someone juicing their ex’s heart.

Steam rose. The kettle whistled like a banshee.

She poured the hot water, the golden liquid hope into the sacred vessel.

But then… the plot thickened.

She remembered, she had no sugar.

DUN DUN DUN.

Her eyes darted toward Rue’s shelf. A forbidden land. A land of unlabelled jars and questionable morals. But desperate times call for petty crimes.

She tiptoed like a raccoon in a Michelin-starred heist movie and scooped half of a tablespoon, because she is not a fan of sweet things. 

Back at her altar of tea, she stirred it all together, watching the colors swirl like a cosmic ballet.

The teabag, now tired and wrinkled like a retired rockstar, was discarded with flair.

The scene was set.

She dimmed the lights.

Lit her most pretentious scented candles, the ones named things like “Forest Campfire” brought from Pepco two paycheques ago.

Opened Netflix.

Bojack Horseman. Because obviously.

She slipped under the blanket like a goddess returning to her cloud. The moment had arrived.

She lifted the cup, closed her eyes…

And took a sip.

GASP.

The taste hit her like a slap from an emotionally repressed toxic aunt.

SALTY.

Her eyes widened.

Her mouth betrayed her.

She screamed.

“Rue, you ABSOLUTE beautiful loving caring weirdo. WHO PUTS SALT IN AN UNLABELLED BOX where I found the SUGAR yesterday?! WHO ARE YOU, THE sexy detective IN CARGO PANTS who is trying to catch who is stealing her sugar?!” 

Her night was ruined. Her trust in mankind? 

Shattered.

The tea?

Undrinkable.

A cup of betrayal. A mug of lies.

And somewhere, in the shadows of the kitchen, Rue probably slept soundly, unaware that war had been declared.

Fin.

Tomorrow, Akanksha shall rise again. But tonight, she sleeps with vengeance in her heart and the taste of salty sorrow on her tongue.