Afternoon tea

I throw my tea and watch the curve it makes, the splash into the bush below - my cup's still in my hand. This gray sky makes it look whiter. The smell of rain, the vague cement of dirt's odor, has climbed up to this balcony.

The curve it made told me something - the clouds went faster, I think, and a smear of sun pried through the clouds and quickly darted back behind.

I've dropped my bookmark; it's next to a brown mahogany leaf. I don't know which to pick up.