The teahouse is dimly lit by what little light filters in through the cluttered window from the overcast glare of this late spring afternoon. We have been meeting there once a week for the last two months. The girl who works behind the counter knows our name and our order. She smiles at the sight of us and begins making our teas with a coy, submissive glance. We always grin and nod, taking our usual seat near the window of the narrow, cramped space. Today, however, our seats are occupied by an uncomfortably pudgy florid businessman and his improbable companion, a little waif of a punk girl, perhaps fourteen years old. She is sipping from a huge mug of hot tea while he drinks a hot pink vitamin water, painfully self-conscious outside of the fluorescent glare of his office or the dingy lighting of the sports-bars he frequents after work.
The tea-girl glances apologetically at us, a few strands of her tousled straw blond hair falling in front of her delicate face. I look at your earthy, sensual face and make a mental comparison. While you are far more “my type” there is something compelling in the rustic, airy, farm house beauty of this young barista. Tea-ista? Tea-girl will have to do for now. She indicates some seats closer to her work-station and we gratefully settle in. A few moments later, she brings us our steaming mugs.