My family was by no means rich, but we did own a teahouse. It was a nice two story house in the perfect spot, down by Dilger street. Close enough to the city centre to be within walking distance, but far enough to be away from the hustle-bustle of the regular nightlife of the Watkins square and the main street. You might not have ever visited it, or even heard about it, but we did have customers, both regulars and occasional. Enough new faces to spread the word and keep the business afloat at any rate. The entrance was in a cross-street intersecting with Dilger. You had to walk under an archway connecting two buildings to see the soothing cadmium-orange light of the paper lanterns hanging on each side of a wooden double door, colour, a faded brown, worn with time.Â
You could already smell the various sortiments of tea from the archway. The delicate aroma of the Silver Needle white tea, combined with the sweeter scents of Lung Ching green tea, complimented by the more floral spectrum of aromas from the various Oolong teas provided. As you would walk closer, however, you would start to smell the stronger scent of the house special black tea, imported straight from Sri Lanka, through connections my father once made travelling as a young man with a dream of opening his very own teashop. The very first time he tried the tea, my father knew, that this would be the basis for his business, that this would be the blend to convince regular customers to keep coming back, and the one to lure in new ones. When he returned, he tracked down a local importer and the rest is history. It would be on sale every Monday, because a patron had once proclaimed to my father that there is nothing better than a cup of strong Ceylon black tea after one of those Monday's that always seem to drag on for just a little bit too long.
The teahouse itself had a very open planning, with the kitchen being almost in full vision for people walking in. There was the ground floor, which I would always refer to as the quiet section, since it had no windows and the customers there would be less likely to chat or ask questions while you were waiting their table. There were no windows at the ground level, and almost all of the light was provided by paper lanterns hanging from the walls or candles on the tables themselves. Right across from the bar and kitchen was the "middle floor", elevated enough from the ground so that people sitting there could not see what was happening higher up, but not enough to be considered a seperate floor. This was my favourite place, I would always sit there after work with a nice cup of tea, looking out the window at the street below, not really seeing anything, but rather just staring at nothing, lost in thought. It was a nice nightly routine, but being away at college I could not indulge in it as much as I would have liked to.
Finally, there was the upper floor, which I hated, if only for the fact that I had to climb stairs whenever someone wanted to sit up there. The floor did not extend all the way, but was rather in the shape of a particularly cubist depiction of a horseshoe, with the opening looking over the "middle floor". The walls of the uppermost floor were lined with oriental-style paintings and bookshelves filled with mostly classics from Western culture, oddly enough. The singular room was tied together by the various bamboo plants and a chandelier swaying from the ceiling, lighting the upper and middle floors with ambient light, while leaving the ground level perfectly shaded for those that did not wish to be recognized.
The business was rather small, as was the staff, so I would alternate between working as a dishwasher and a waiter while I was in town. It was stressful at times, for sure, but I always felt like I was making someones day a little bit better by serving them exquisite tea, while making my parents' lives easier by doing the dishes when the bustle died down in the evening hours. To an extent I liked the monotonous work of washing dishes, because it would take my mind to different places, as well as helping me forget about the stresses of college. Waiting tables on the other hand was exhausting. Talking to people and smiling all the time made me tired beyond even exam periods, but I felt a duty to help out. It also helped that most patrons were nice people with good manners.
It was a warm summer night and I was on break from college, with the exams just having ended. We would stay open until 1 or 2 AM during the summer, if there were customers. It must have been somewhere around 11 when a single girl walked through the door. I was washing dishes in the little sink, behind the bar, overlooking the entrance and the ground floor. I only lifted my glance for a moment to look her in the eye and greet her with a smile and a promise to be with her shortly. I almost didn't realise how beautiful she was, truely gorgeous. For a moment I cursed the fact that I wasn't the one waiting tables at the moment, but in a stroke of good luck my dad patted me on the shoulder and told me to tag him out, giving me his notesheet and pen to take orders. I took them and the platter with freshly brewed green tea for table 6 and headed off. Luckily there were not many customers, only three tables and the girl that had just walked in. She sat by the window, on the middle floor and I knew I should not be glancing at her so often, but I could not stop myself, even when taking orders from other tables.
Finally it was time to walk up those stairs and greet this girl properly. I introduced myself and asked if she had already decided upon what to take, or if she needed some time to think. I suggested the house tea, since it was a Monday and instead of the memorized version of the qualities of the blend I told her it was a personal favourite. She looked at me, with eyes as green as the first leaves of spring and asked for Chinese style dumplings and a kettle of house tea. I wrote it down and was turning around to leave as she stopped me and insisted that truthfully a kettle was too much for one person and as a joke I said I would drink it with her in that case. Immediately I realised how bad of a move this was. She was too perfect to even approach. The way she looked at you, the way her short hair barely touched her shoulders, the way she seemed to always have a slight half-smile. I could not believe I had the courage to even say anything in that moment. I was turning visibly red as she finally, with a puzzled and curious look on her face, nodded and said that it would be a marvelous idea. I promised to join her as soon as I'd taken cheques from the other tables and nervously fled to the ground floor. Thankfully there was no one on the upper floor, because I was shaking too much to walk up and down the stairs in my current condition.
The night rolled on and I was anxiously waiting for the last customers to leave. It must have been around half past twelve now, with the street outside almost completely quiet. Finally table 2 signaled for the cheque and I rushed over with my mind on the opening sentence as I sit down with the angel sitting on the middle floor, looking out of the window, her dark-red hair pushed behind her ear to stop it from tipping into the tea cup, her perfect posture leaning on the chair with a strange charm, both elbows on the table, one holding up the white cup with pale blue decorations and the other supporting her perfect jaw. I almost didn't hear as my current patron asked to pay with a debit card. Slightly frustrated I walked back to the counter to get the machine and finally get rid of the customer. Thank god, she hadn't left yet. The tea must be cold by now.
I removed my apron behind the counter and asked my father if it would be okay if I left the dishes to him that night. He glanced over at the middle floor and with a smile winked at me, but said nothing. I took out my wallet and added some money to the register, paying for two slices of chocolate cake and took them with me as I started up the stairs. My heart was pounding out of my chest, while my mind was running scenarios and conversations in my head. I was still trying to come up with the perfect opening line. Should I say something about the cake? Something about being sorry for the wait? Should I instead ask about the tea? Maybe instead remark upon the quiet of this particular night?
I was lost in thought when I almost pumped into her table, startling us both a little. I decided to apologize for the wait while also making a remark about how it was particularly quiet that night, even for a Monday. I placed the cake infront of her and with a wink said that it was on the house. She smiled the most beautiful smile I had ever seen and thanked me, adding that it was indeed particularly quiet today and that was the exact reason she had come out that night. She explained that she loved discovering new places in the city and most of all she loved wondering the empty streets at night, looking for lights that were still on in windows and imagining what the life of the people living behind them was like. She said all of this while looking over me up and down. I must have looked like an idiot, just staring at her there, not responding. I did finally open my mouth after what had seemed like millenia and added that I too liked quiet nights and that my favourite thing to do was to sit in this very spot, looking out of the window and just letting my thoughts roll over me. That was a lie. This was not my favourite spot. My favourite spot was at the back wall, sitting with my back to the wall, because I felt safest there. However, I wanted to connect with this amazing person. Wanted it so badly, that I didn't even think twice about a small lie like that.
She frowned at me playfully and challenged me, insisting that I only said that to impress her. I tried to salvage what I could by fumbling through a sentence that was meant to convey that doing what I described was indeed my favourite pastime, even if this particular spot was not my favourite. She laughed a friendly smile at me and to my relief added that she was merely messing with me. I didn't even know her name yet, but it felt like I had known her for the longest time. She started meekly picking at her cake, holding the fork with her pale white left hand, showing that she was cultured, eating it slowly, savouring the taste. I had to say something. I was fairly certain she could hear the gears in my head churning away, trying to come up with a line that wasn't completely idiotic. I asked for her name, seeing as she already knew mine. She extended her right hand across the table to me and answered "Niine". She had a firm handshake and a somewhat faked smile while making this formal introduction, but the moment we let go, she was back to her normal, charming self.
We ate our pieces of cake and drank the cold black tea, that had simmered for too long, thanks to which it complimented the sweetness of the chocolate cake oddly well. We talked, we conversed, we spoke, we laughed, we traded interests, but it was all stationary in a way. I guess the best way to explain it is, that it was like walking on a sheet of ice, knowing that there is much more underneath it than what you can see now. It made me sad to an extent, because I felt it was a game. A game of lets not reveal ourselves, while trying to pry information from the other. She asked me if I liked flowers. I responded that I liked to see them bloom in spring or summer, but had no knowledge of them in particular. She looked at me, or more accurately, through me, as she explained that she loved flowers, mostly because she felt each flower contained a story within them. Their awakening a motivational cry for everyone willing to listen. For the first time during this night, I felt like she was talking about herself. Not through the lens of someone or something else, but talking about herself as she perceives.
The clock struck 2 AM with almost a deafening blow as my father said from the bar that we were closing for the night. I was grasped by desperation as I did not want this night to end as of yet. Niine looked at me with her leafy green eyes, her ever so slightly freckled face, her usual half-smile and asked me if I would like to watch the stars together with her, adding that she knew a cool place where we could get to a rooftop. I wished for nothing else in that moment, only to go where she goes, to experience what she does, to share my thoughts of beauty, of despair and everything in between, with her. I could do naught else but nod. Walking down the stairs I excused myself for a moment to speak with my father. I didn't even get to open my mouth before he told me to go and shook his head as if saying "young people".
Next thing I know I was out of the door with her. Walking slowly in the cool nights air, that was warm enough to make it enjoyable, but cold enough to make me think I should have taken a jacket with me, if only so I could be a gentleman if the need came. The walk was uneventful until we were almost at the docks, and at that moment she grabbed me by the hand and started running down an alleyway, saying that the place was right around the corner. We climbed through a hole in a chain-link fence, with a "private property" sign attached to it and she motioned to a terribly rusted ladder leading to the rooftop of what I assumed to be an old shipyard. The docks were almost completely dark at this time of night and I could have sworn that I had never seen stars that shined that bright ever in my life.
We sat on the edge, overlooking the calm sea, listening to the waves softly crash against the rocks, gazing up at the stars. She was sitting close to me, just a few centimetres away. I was entranced by her, enveloped in the way she smelled, the way she was outlined against the dark sky, the way the city lights from behind her gave her skin an almost unearthly glow. I was there to look at her, as much as I was there to look at the stars. I had forgot about the time long ago and I was barely aware of where I was in that moment. And then it happened, she opened up. She broke the sheet of ice that I had been trying to chip away for what seemed like centuries now. We talked about the constellations and shared the stories that were behind them. She always seemed to know a different telling of a constellations story than I did, so we picked them apart and made our own stories for them. We glued together the excitement of a popular telling with the romance of a less known one, or the revenge story of one with the elements of redemption of another. We talked about things that mattered to us, where we were heading, where we came from. We spoke of our ideas about the Universe itself, the natural order and who created it, if anyone. We began making free-flowing poems of the things we found laying around on the roof. We shared the excitement of telling a story by alternating between each other as the storyteller. Sometimes after whole chapters, sometimes after mere sentences. We picked apart the city skyline pointing out different buildings and talking about the people living in them. We imagined disgruntled lawyers, who just wanted to make the world better, and we imagined hopeful artists, who in truth cared about nothing else but being famous.
In this moment I felt complete. There was no time and only the space that we created. She was beautiful, both inside and out. It was bliss, it was ecstasy for the soul. We talked about our families. I found out that she had 2 sisters and that they were all, in fact, triplets, which was extremely weird for me, since I thought things like that only happened in fake news stories and fairy tales. But then again, perhaps this was nothing more than a dreamed up fairy tale.
