She moves behind the counter, shaking tea leaves out of ceramic containers onto metal scales, weighing out the orders, pouring the dried leaves into shiny gold tinfoil bags, nose tickled by tea dust. Her hair is pulled back into a pony tail, lifted off of that long slim neck. She has a profile with the curve of forehead and cheekbone that begs to be captured in oils on canvas and aged for three hundred years in a clandestine gallery. There’s something solemn about her bearing, until a customer steps to the counter and her smile lights up, but when they leave the flame just as quickly smolders out. Back to the rhythm of pouring out the leaves, balancing the scales, pressing closed the bags, a mantra that clears the mind.
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1 comment:
Mmm... memories of entering the teahouse in the city where I was born and raised for a few years come to mind... feelings always cherished...
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