Whimsical Anecdotes of the Existential Waltz

Mr. Fox's Canadian Teacup

Mr. Fox had never seen one like that before. Through all his years of travel. Dang. That was one fine teacup.
As the gentlemanly and refined fox was making his general rounds about the town, attempting to get most of his shopping done, he passed by the window of an antiques store. One of those shops that sold ancient useless-looking sparkly knicknacks. Twirly doodads. You know. The gleaming shop display caught his eye like a flame drawing a moth, and he quickly found himself pressed against the frosty glass.
Through the fogged window, a fine white teacup stood perched atop a dark wood music box. Various trinkets and toys were scattered about on the table as well. But it was the delicate porcelain cup that drew his attention the most. It was so pure, so brilliant...what a delightful cup of tea could be brewed in the vessel! How the steam would wreath delicately from the rich liquid! How-
His furred cheeks grew hot as he realized he was drawing puzzled stares from passerby on the street. Impulsively, he pulled open the wooden door of the shop and scampered-in a fine gentlemanly fashion- into the store.
What he noticed first was the delicious smell that assailed him in a warm gust of dry air. It was a musty, booky sort of scent. It was the scent of exotic spices, the sands of the ocean, the aged leather of a falconer's barn. It reminded him of the way his mother used to sew buttons onto sparkling kneecap replacement parts...wait. What the heck. Yeah it sort of was dry and library-smelling in here, and it was probably affecting his head.
Rows and rows of shelves, stacked to overflowing with glittering objects, lined the cramped store walls. There were glass orbs, brass candlesticks, leather pouches, dusty gray books, dusty red books, rubber ducks, cups, mugs, chalices, glasses, plates, spoons... oh god. He hated spoons. Hated them with a burning passion.
Turning from the fine array of silvered spoons, he stepped over to the table where the beautiful cup he had seen earlier stood.
The treasure awaited him. Gleaming, pure as the freshly fallen snow, white as the mane of a unicorn, ethereal as the storm-tossed flecks of sea foam, clean as a...a...shirt. A shirt that had no bloodstains on it. Or. Bodily fluids of any sort. Come on, let's not jump to any conclusions here.
Clearing his head, he took the single cup up to the counter and fished in his pocket for coins. The cashier or shop owner stood behind the cash register with a thin but cordial smile on his face. He looked quite the friendly chap, an graying owl about the age of forty-or-so. Forty-or-so was a fine age to be, thought Mr. Fox. Not so old as to be readying for canes and glasses and LifeAlert and whatnot, but still enough to be wise and experienced. Mr. Fox was forty-or-so himself.
"How much'd this be, sir?" Holding the cup up, he opened his wallet and smiled a bit awkwardly. Agh, social encounters are not my forte, he thought to himself.
"Eh, for that old thing? Er, threecents and no more, good sir."
"What! For such a beauty? Nay, I'd pay you three-and-a-sixthcent for her!"
The owl blinked at him slowly. "Well, how's about we have a cup of fine Earl Grey before you decide that one, eh? Sit yourself down at that table, and I'll put on the kettle." The owl blinked slowly again and shuffled off to a back kitchen.
Mr. Fox glanced around in the direction of the owl's gesture. There was not much of a table where he had pointed, though there was a small mahogany writing desk with a stool placed beside it and a few dainty white plates laid out.
He sat down on the only stool, a bit uneasy about the whole turn of events. He barely had time to ponder the wisdom of having tea in a back corner with a stranger and a lovely teacup, before the owl reappeared with a tray of steaming delectables.
The owl had prepared hot scones with raspberry jam amd butter, as well as blackberry sugar pastries, cucumber-and-cheese finger sandwiches, all beside a tall white pot of fragrant tea.
After taking note of the excessive and quite unnecessary description in that last sentence, Mr. Fox waited as the owl poured tea into his beloved teacup.
The tea that proceeded was both delicious and enlightening. Though, he began to doubt his earlier thoughts about the darling cup. It was fine, really, but he found the idea of it much better than the object itself. As he mused over and over again, he slowly turned the cup over in his paws. To his mild surprise, the tea did not slosh out. He turned it completely upside down, and to his delight,none of the tea spilled out so much as a drop.
"Say, good sir Owl, does this cup come in any other varieties?"
"A good deal, sir. This one here is the fine female teacup. I also stock the male variety, as well as the ones who identify as belonging to a separate gender. Finally, I have the Canadians. Do any of these strike your fancy?"
"Ah-" Mr. Fox spotted a fine dark red cup nearby his paw. He inspected the delicate silvery carvings on the handle and rim, and decided this would be a much better cup.
"I'll take this one, sir."
"Very well. It's three and a fifthcent, and a cent more if you wish it to be insured with my finest Teacup Insurance."
"Yes, and yes to the insurance as well. You never know what may happen, after all...! Here you are." Mr. Fox handed the shop owner the required amount of money, and stashed the Insured Maroon Canadian Teacup into his overcoat pockets.
"Have a good day, sir!" the Owl bid him.
"You as well! Here is my Facebook if you wish to contact me for tea again at any time!"
As the fox scampered out of the store in a gentlemanly fashion, the white teacup could be heard exclaiming,
"You RACIST!"
Mr. Fox decided he'd teach Mr. Owl how to brew a proper cup of Earl Grey tea sometime."
The End