With shaking hands,

she pushed the cup that contained more dust than tea across the table.

The thin blanket of gray

covering the drink tickled my upper lip but not wanting to offend,

I drank.

More than any person I've encountered,

before or since,

she was an unending source of both tear drops and dust.

Even her voice

seemed wrapped in a warm woolen layer of duress and static,

a voice that was continually cracking on the edge of emotion,

receiving interference from some unknown

source.

I think she was probably catching signals from deep space.

Some said that she saved her many tear drops

and served them to guests in their drinks.

I held my breath with each swallow,

dreading the discovery of a hint of salt

at the end of every sip.