A watched pot never boils

The kettle boils. I place the tea bag in my mug and pour the piping hot water. I pick up my tea and once I’ve sat down on my chaise longue, I set the tea on the table beside me.

The steam rises like a Chinese dragon, twirling through the air, winding and spinning its way up. It seems to be doing pirouettes like an astonishingly talented ballet dancer, or reaching its arms out, spiralling and undulating up like the hands of a belly dancer.

I raise the mug and take a sip, but it’s still too hot.

I set it back down and continue to watch the steam materialize and slowly vanish.