The Writer's Tea

Sitting in the teahouse, I take a back table to watch the world go by. When I came in, I noticed a guy at the front, sitting with his back against the wall where he can see the world outside as well as the patrons in the teahouse.

I order a pot of Hojicha and take my notebook and pen to the corner table, opposite the fish tank. From here, I can see everyone inside, and hear them at the counter as they place their orders. A lady just stormed out, heading for the Starbucks across the street because you can't get tea to-go here.

Tea isn't a drink, it's an experience, the clerk explained. She wasn't having any of that, with a cell phone permanently attached to her left ear, long fingernails that tapped the counter rudely because Jimmy was plating up some noodles and he works the teahouse alone.

Just as well. That kind of energy is empty, and her cell phone would have drawn angry looks from all of us. Including that guy up front. I've figure him out - he's one of us.

A Writer.

He's got a notebook, and he occasionally taps his lip with his pen, but he hasn't written anything yet. Neither have I, but I just sat down. My tea leaves are still steeping, I just checked the pot and they're still swelling up with the heat of the water, slowly releasing their goodness into the little white porcelain pot.

I've had a bad day, and the page is empty.

The story is there, I can see it. Every time I close my eyes, it's right there, playing out scene by scene. The dialogue is fantastic. I love hearing it, listening to my characters speak it out to each other. But the empty page has me snow-blind. The words are there, dancing around in the forest in the back corner of my brain, like errant fairies, refusing to be photographed.

Little shits.

I check the pot again and the water is finally darkened. With the strainer over the top of my cup, I pour out the tea and the scent of it floods my nose. Hojicha is fairy dust in thick, long strips of green leaves. It's earthy.

Primal.

It's the very thing those little fairies can't resist.

I bring the cup to my mouth and inhale the steam through my nose, eyes closed, willing the fairies to sense it.

I hate them, and they know it. I don’t write fantasy, and that's pissing them off. But they can't resist the tea. I add a touch of sugar, just enough to tease out the flavor. When I take a drink, I can smell it and taste it at the same time.

They've caught wind of the tea now. The little creeps finally recognized what I'm drinking and they want some. They want it bad, those errant little fairies. One of them just popped its head around a tree and I saw it.

Now they have no choice. They're flying out of the forest and running down my pen, heading for the tea. I click the ball point and write: All your Tea shall be mine.