You’re Too Sweet

[TW/CW: Death/suicide]

It’s May 4th: Earl Grey Day.

I empty six packets of that fancy raw sugar into my mug. One by one, I watch the brown crystals tumble through the rising steam and plop into the still pool of black tea below. I envy the ease with which they fall apart, dissolving into something larger than themselves. Losing themselves without consequence. Sugar doesn’t have to hide tears from their friends, or push through the work day.

Following your recipe, I then pour in three seconds worth of half-and-half until the drink looks like dirty milk. My mouth reflexively recoils from the cup as I bring it to my lips.

It’s absolutely disgusting.

Every year, it gets harder and harder to drink this atrocity that you called “tea.” My tastes are changing as I age. On this day, though, taste is the one sense I can stand.

When I forget what your laugh sounded like, I play a video. Usually that one where your glasses fall off into your bowl of ramen mid-bite. And yet, it never sounds quite right. Following multiple iterations of phones and file compressions, I suppose some distortion is expected.

What I do remember is the eerie silence when I unlocked your apartment and knew something was wrong.

When I forget what your apartment smelled like, I don’t know how (nor if I want to) recreate it. You were a boy, after all. Neat enough, but still a boy. The aroma of the bacon-wrapped asparagus I taught you to make mixed with the roses you kept on the counter by your mother’s obituary. Together, those fought for dominance with the still-drying paint from your last art project. It was… something.

What I do remember is the smell of the pillar and Christ candles you had left burning overnight, something you would never do, cold wax trailing to the floor.

When I forget whether your lashes were long or short, I have plenty of pictures to flip through. But they don’t show me how you fluttered them. Or how you blinked in an attempt to keep a poker face when someone said something astonishing. Or how you squinted in the sun.

What I do remember is seeing just enough through the open bedroom door to know what awaited inside.

When I forget what your hugs felt like, I curl up with your sweater. The grey wool one, to be precise. But I accidentally shrunk it one wash cycle, and without your warmth to fill it, the touch doesn’t satisfy my need for you.

What I do remember is the sharpness of rocks under my right foot as I ran to inform the campus authorities, my shoe flying off somewhere along the journey.

But taste… I remember no specific taste from that day.

What I do remember is the taste of day we met. We were at some camp designed to help all the housing staff bond. Once we started talking, we couldn’t stop. In the evening, we sat by the firepit, and you handed me this diabetic coma disguised as tea. I couldn’t keep a straight face, couldn’t even lie and say I liked it. You laughed and told me that hating sweet tea is discrimination against Texans like you. I asked you if you had at least grabbed us decaf, since it was nearly ten at night. That shut you up for a moment. As the caffeine and sugar kicked in, we grew progressively more loopy. We stayed up all night, telling stories and singing Kelly Clarkson. We decided this meant our friendship was fated.

I drink Earl Grey often; it’s one of my favorite teas. I add just a touch of honey, perhaps a splash of milk.

But on the anniversary of your death, I drink it like you. I taste our beginnings, and I remember.

The perfect sweetness.