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Coups de cœur Cultura
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The hot, sweet steam that rises from the fresh cup of tea clenched between my fingers, helps clear my blocked, swollen sinuses a little. I gaze down at the wooden kitchen table top through burning, blurry eyes, my vision fuzzy and distorted through the last of the tears I’ve been crying for God knows how long.
As I begin to finally regain my senses and awareness, I realise with a shock that this must be at least the fifth cup of tea my housemate, Gina, has patiently made for me, and that while I’ve been sat here, weeping and drinking slurpily, the morning sun has fully risen and now shines in at me through the small kitchen window, illuminating what I can only imagine to be my very mascara-streaked, puffy and unattractive face. What a wretched state I must look - and all over an obnoxious, ass-hole of a man.
