A Lukewarm Cup of Tea

With the sound of the faucet running, she closes her eyes and pats her face wet. She remembers the passion-plum walls, the black accents, and their ability to swallow her entire existence. On the opposite side of the door, scenes and images of a rolling, dark evening sky--occasionally saturated by low-lit, awkward orange street bulbs--project onto a bedroom window. Sirens. Periodic shouts. It is all beautiful. 

She takes a sip of her lukewarm cup of tea and sets it down.
She remembers.
And that is all it is today, a memory.

She turns off the faucet.