The Heat

The heat scorched the tip of my tongue as I cautiously sipped my teh tarik. I settled it on the table, loosening my grip, though I never did let it go. Lowering my head, I craned my neck, my mouth forming an O and silently whistled across the beige surface of the drink.

“You’re a very warm person,” she said.

No I’m not. Looking up to squarely meet her, her eyes, almost glazed by her glasses, told me that there is no need to share that thought with her.

“You’re smart, witty, charming…”

Yeah, yeah.

“…but you’re too emotional. There’s too much anger, too much angst within you.”

I stopped blowing.

“You have to try, no matter how hard it is, to control that. You’ve come a long way. But you still have some way to go. You can’t stop.”

She paused, and reached out with her right hand to place it on my left, squeezing it tight.

“Please don’t let your anger burn you.”

I looked at her hand on top of mine, its back softly withered by age and experience. By sadness, anger, betrayal.

I sipped my teh tarik.

It’s not as hot anymore.