Never-ending moths fluttered around my brain as I stood in the leaky greenhouse holding my tea and listening to the lazy crescendo of warm September rain.
Karl, or Yoshi as he was now calling himself, was right, there were tiny shrimps zipping about in the mug if I looked just passed it and didn’t focus. How long had this been happening?
They were white and they rose out of the hot-tea-depths and darted along just below the surface casting minute rippling V’s from underneath.
At times they seemed to play. Occasionally, at the surface, one would appear to flare its little body, stretching its tiny plated exoskeleton until another would shoot up and chase it away.
Karl/Yoshi said that their almost invisible eggs came into existence with the click of the kettle, the instant it reached boiling point. They were inseminated by the milk, hatched in the mugs and grew to their full size in a matter of seconds.
I took a sip. It tasted like tea.
