The Second Steep

My friend dunked the bag again

without even thinking about it,

just grabbed the string

and pushed it back down

into the hot water,

like the leaves had something left to give,

like they weren't already spent,

already wrung out.

She was talking about her job,

about something her boss had said,

and the teabag was just

collateral damage,

just the thing her hand

was doing while her mind

was somewhere else,

somewhere more important.

I watched it come apart a little,

the bag weakening at the seams,

a few loose leaves

floating up like surrender,

like the thing was finally admitting

it had nothing left,

that the second time

was just prolonging

the inevitable.

And I felt something

turn in my stomach

that wasn't about the tea.

Because I know people

who do this to themselves,

who steep themselves

a second time

even though the water's

already taken everything,

even though they know

they're just making it bitter,

making it worse.

I wanted to tell her

to throw the bag out,

to start fresh,

to stop trying to extract

something from nothing.

But she was still talking,

still not noticing

that she was doing it,

still pushing the exhausted thing

back down into the heat,

still expecting

that this time

would be different.