There are two cups in the cabinet.

Two tea cups, anyway; there are others. Twelve indistinguishable pint glasses. I know I bought them at Walmart - there's no other possibility - but I don't remember buying them. That's not a problem. Generic, utilitarian, forgettable. I shouldn't remember where they're from.

The tea cups, though. The one on the left is mine. Red clay, inscribed with Chinese characters I can't read. Expensive, not tourist trash. Someone picked up while... on vacation, I suppose. For me. A gift. Or maybe she was overseas on work.

It sits upside down on a square of red silk, and when I lift the cup it leaves a circle, not faded, not dusty. The thing is ceremonial, for show - it has to be. It'd fall to pieces if used for an actual drink.

It's sat here for as long as I've been in the house. As long as we have. No. As long as I have. And it's here because it means something.

The other one, sitting on its saucer, must mean something too. White porcelain, blue pigment tracing lace. It's stained on the inside, so someone uses it. Used it. Someone likes tea. Liked?

She brought me home a nice cup. She would have said - I know you don't drink a lot of tea, but I was in a shop looking for myself, and I thought of you when I saw it. The dragon on the side, she would have said, and would have traced its outline with a finger. Very gruff, she'd have said.

Or not, I don't know. It could be my mother's. Passed down from... no, it's not hers. Her last gift was a create of pork rolls. She didn't know what a "gross" meant and so sent me 10 gross of pork rolls. There are still hundreds in the outside fridge.

Maybe she was Buddhist. Tea ceremony enthusiast. She'd explain that the dragon was auspicious over there - she'd learned that - but over here it was always destructive. Demonic or satanic, even. Saint George slayed the dragon. She'd stare at the cup, off in her own thoughts. I'd touch her elbow, whisper "hey," bring her out of her thoughts. She'd laugh and ceremonially enshrine it in the cabinet.

Or not. I don't know. It's hard to breathe. There's a word on the tip of my tongue but it's more like a wall, and the effort's making it hard to breathe. Trying not to get frustrated, but it's itching in my toes and throat and I might hit something.

Bite lip, stare at ceiling, try not to think about the cup. Because I can't. The cup perches on a ledge, and if I think about her fingers on the cup I slip over the edge. The lavender drying in the dehydrator, it's there but it has no reason. The water filter I never used, but someone had to. The water tastes fine, and I'd say that to her, I'm sure I would, because the water does taste fine, but get a filter if you want one.

I really am having trouble breathing. Get outside, lay in the grass, look at the sky. If I pass out, I pass out. That's the worst that can happen. Anxiety is just a neurochemical state and I'm sure she told me this, but I don't remember when, and maybe it was a book.

The light hurts my eyes and I'm not sure how long I've been inside, or how long I've been awake. I know I ate - the taste of syrup and butter when I chew on my beard. Some salt and protein. French toast that someone cooked for me.

My neighbor's across the street. Baker. Always up early in the morning and I thought I'd hate the guy because his truck would wake me up way too early in the morning, but I wear earplugs. That was the compromise. I wanted a sound machine, but...

"Hey!" he shouts. He waves. "Have..." he starts and then trails off. "Have you seen..." Falls to his knees, grasping at the grass like gravity's going to fail. "Do you know who I'm looking for?" he yells over.

The phone in my pocket vibrates, startling me. A text. No, a reminder. "Get flowers" is the command I left myself. And she's there as my background. Black hair, brown skin, dark eyes. Not a supermodel, but my kind of woman. I would have liked her eyebrows. I would have told her.

I can't breathe. The phone case was her idea, I think. It wasn't mine. I don't drop my phones and I don't need one, but I throw it against the side of the house and it doesn't shatter. She'd probably laugh, but I can't do the phone right now. Neurons fire into an abyss and there's just nothing there to catch my curiosity. My brain threatens to shut down. Too many loose wires sparking, causing fires.

I grip the grass between my own fingers and sit, lay back to look at the sky. Another neighbor's door opens and someone - a woman - gasps. "I'm having a stroke!" she screams. "Call an ambulance!"

This is one of those gas leaks. Methane from a belching lake. We'll all lay down and die as our lungs struggle for oxygen that's not here. Or maybe they've all gone to the rapture. Some bioweapon.

I take one last look at the photo and I can't breathe, and I wonder if the last thing I did in my life was piss off this woman who's probably my wife, or maybe if the flowers were just because.

It's getting dark, and maybe I'm hyperventilating, or maybe it's the clouds, or maybe it's her. I sort of don't want to wake up from this.