Tea With Nanahuatl

The sun god finds himself unexpectedly in a house. A living room, to be precise. He is sitting in a tall brocade chair, and there is a delicate china cup on the table beside him. He rises, cursing in a language long dead.

“Oh, please stop that.”

He looks across the room, long dark hair whipping behind him. There is a woman there. A small one, delicate as her teacups, hair piled high on her head, wearing a shawl that is all the colors of sunset. His colors. She smiles. “Relax. Sit. Have some tea.”

“Where am I? Who are you? What have you done?”

She sits beside him and sips from her teacup, a mischievous smile peeking out from behind the porcelain. “Connecticut. Aurelia. I’ve summoned you.”

He growls, threat implicit; this does not faze her, so he sits. “Summoned me how? I see no altar, no human sacrifice.”

She stretches out her arms; the shawl spreads like wings. “This. I crocheted this for this purpose alone, you see. Every stitch thinking of you.”

His hand tightens on the teacup, shattering it. “You are meant to sacrifice to me!”

She laughs. “You know how long this took? I sacrificed time. And my hands.” She flexes her fingers, wincing slightly.

“Priests once laid men upon my altar, cutting out their living hearts! And you... you somehow bring me here by these means? Why?”

“I have always loved the sun,” she says quietly. Wistfully. She stands and, before Nanahuatl can move, she flings the shawl over his shoulders. It shimmers slightly. “Do have the cookies,” she says. “They’re very good.”

Bound, Nanahuatl obeys. They are chocolate chip. And they are very good indeed.

Ω

Shira Lipkin  Shira Lipkin's website lives in Boston with her husband, daughter, and three cats, most of whom also write. Her poetry and short fiction have appeared in ChiZine, Electric Velocipede, Lone Star Stories, and other nifty places. You can track her movements at shiralipkin.com. She would like a monkey.