Narrator: Elaine O. | Coventry, England
My sister used to borrow my house key and let herself in for tea. After she died I kept expecting to hear her complain about the kettle taking forever.
One afternoon I came home to find her usual mug on the counter. There was a lipstick mark on the rim. A horrible coral colour she wore because it annoyed her daughter.
I hadn’t used the mug. I’d put it at the back of a cupboard because seeing it upset me.
I made tea in it. I know that sounds like asking for trouble. At the time it seemed rude not to.
When I set it down, the kitchen chair opposite mine moved an inch away from the table. A shallow hollow formed in its cushion. The tea in the mug trembled in little circles.
I was happy for perhaps two seconds. Then I realised I was sitting absolutely still, afraid to look towards the empty chair in case something had come that only knew enough to use her lipstick.
Nothing more happened. I washed the mug and put it away. I wish I could tell you I felt certain it was her. I miss her too much to be certain of anything about it.
