morning tea
Short writing about my sona because I was feeling like writing
Pippin padded through their bedroom door, inhaling slowly before letting it out with a yawn. Their pajama pants got caught underneath their feet as they walked into their kitchen. It was filled with the bright morning light streaming through a window above the stove, and their eyes hurt as they slowly adjusted.
They tugged the lid off of the kettle on the counter, and pulled the faucet handle. It resisted with a squeal before giving way, releasing a spout of water from the tap. The kettle filled slowly, and the pigeon shifted their feet on the tile floor as they waited.
The morning was decidedly nice. No work to rush off to, no construction across the street to wake them up prematurely. The construction was usually there early in the morning, working as an unwanted alarm clock. But today, the air was still, and the crunching, beeping, and roaring that often blared was conspicuously silent... Not that Pippin minded the silence.
The kettle finished filling, and they quickly cut the flow from the faucet before it could spill over the lip of the pot. Their claws tapped rhythmically on the metal, emitting a pleasing clik-clik-clik. They stared out the window absent-mindedly. The giant construction equipment stood, static, on the half finished plot.
The kettle gave a shriek, and Pippin cringed at the sound as they pulled it from the heat and turned off the flame. Grabbing a mug, they poured the boiling water out and tugged open a box labeled "Mint Medley”. Aptly named, it had a cool smell that made their eyes water slightly. They dropped a bag into the boiling water.
No longer quite as sleep-dazed, the anthro stepped across the room to pluck a book off of the faux granite countertop. A receipt poked out of the top, standing in for a bookmark. Pippin opened it and stared at the crisp pages.
It was a graphic novel, filled with colorful, eye-catching drawings that depicted the adventures of three characters taken out of a podcast. Pippin studied the art, not bothering to read the text trapped in white speech bubbles. The story resonated with its grey-furred reader. They weren’t sure why.
The tea timer went off.