The Tea Party

The water was at knee level now, and it was still rising. It spilled out from the sinks and poured down the side of the tub. The washing machine was filled up to the rim and the dishwasher leaked. Water gushed from all the taps and all the drains were clogged with stoppers and the hair and gunk that comes from years of living.

The roof leaked into teacups, each drop splashing a little more over the edge. The table was set up for a tea party, with little cups and saucers and dainty cakes. There were cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles and silver spoons filled with tiny puddles.

At the table sat a girl, her dress clinging to her, her wide brimmed hat flopping in her eyes. She drank from a yellow teacup with her pinky out and sat with her ankles crossed. Her feet were clad in white socks with lacy cuffs, she wore no shoes. They were discarded in the corner, floating with ladles and a little side table that was missing its plant.

As the water rose the skirt of her dress billowed out around her. The lights flickered, seeming to imitate the lighting outside the window. As the room fell dark that girl set her cup down on the precariously floating table. She stood up, the water sloshing about her waist, and addressed the empty room. “What a lovely tea party.”