Vignette

The Silence Between Us

Tea

Tea at Camilla’s is as much an enjoyable experience as it is a challenge that approaches something like pain. It’s as strained and upsetting as it is fascinating and fun. For all the great beauty and grandeur of Camilla herself and of her home and living room, I feel at times a private tension and secret discomfort.

Camilla serves gossamery hors d’oeuvres and superior tea all gorgeously arrayed upon a beautiful ornate tray. I smile brightly. She smiles brightly.

“Thanks Camilla,” I say,”You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s nothing! Nothing!” says Camilla.

We drink the tea in slight slow sips and share small talk and stories. I am careful not to let my thoughts and conversational compulsions stray too far away from “the mark.” I’m one of those people that talks with great animation and passion about whatever’s disjointedly on my mind and what’s on my mind isn’t at all always nice, safe, pretty, or sweet. Sometimes I’m preoccupied with terrible things and I want to talk about them. These things might include anything from political corruption, religious exploitation, violence, rape, war, murder, death, or animal abuse.

“Oh darling. Must we talk about those things,” Camilla says whenever I’ve accidentally strayed into undesirably troublesome territory. “It’s such a beautiful day. Please. Let’s not be depressing.”

“My apologies, Camilla,” I answer, “I’m just not 24-7 thinking only about designer handbags, celebrities, television shows, and gossiping.” Camilla sets her eyes to glaze while I finish. We both then with a pointed silence and neutrality drink our tea.

“I just don’t feel like thinking about exploitation, corruption, murder, death, and rape,” Camilla says.

“I’m sure the people being exploited, corrupted, murdered, and raped probably would also rather not be thinking about exploitation, corruption, murder, and rape.” I only think this response, I do not say it, because such relentless argumentation is sure to ruin tea.

The silence between us becomes more pointed and less neutral.

“Well!” Camilla says finally, “So. How are you. How are you.” The second how are you is a glory of auricular italics.

“Fine,” I reply, “Glorious and fine.” My glorious and fine fairly matches Camilla in terms of award-winning emphasis, to the point where it might actually pass for rude. I nibble primly upon the gossamery hors d’oeuvres. Camilla pulls from literally nowhere a dust buster petite and pretty in its design, and dust busts my blouse front to vanquish all crumbs almost before they can even happen. The whir of the little machine drowns my conversation mostly out and so I pause.

“Go on!” Camilla urges, “I’m listening! Go on!”

I wait nonetheless until she finishes with the loudly disruptive suddenness of the dust busting. I have no idea how clearly readable is the expression on my face. Mentally I think my expression couldn’t be louder or clearer as to the content of its meaning, but something tells me Camilla likes willfully to be blithe and blind to such silently loud and blatant things.

“Do you have to dust bust me every time I reach to eat?” I ask once the machine whirs to a stop. “I mean. Couldn’t you just give me one good final busting once I’ve finished with the food.” Camilla flushes, laughs ethereally and makes a gesture with her hand that is as dismissive as it is dainty.

“I just like to keep things nice and tidy!” She says, and adds in a low conspiratorial voice, “You know how it is.” Seeing as I too am often an unreasonably compulsive obsessive perfectionist neatness freak, I do in fact know “how it is,” but even I don’t barbarously dust bust the lap and shirt front of the person seated next to me while they try with innocence and discretion to eat.

“Anyway,” I say with a fixed and luminous smile, “Great crumpets.”
“Those aren’t crumpets,” says Camilla.

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