He watches her stir her tea with a cinnamon stick across from him, warm Darjeeling in the air. The tea house they're in feels a mix between cold and hot, steam from their respective teacups rising into their faces, chilled silence filling in the spaces. From the moment he'd entered her antique shop a vivid sense of déjà vu enveloped him. Not necessarily in regards to the sylphlike woman before him in her cashmere and heeled boots, but the shop itself, as if it shouldn't have been there in the first place, or perhaps from one of the scattered antiques littering the shelves of her store.
He removes his leather gloves carefully, fingers stiff from the sharp winter air. The scent of leather always reminded him of the city, cool and luxurious, with its dazzling neon lights.
“You're never alone in the city.” The woman says suddenly, elbows resting on the table as she mindlessly stirs her tea.
He hated the taste of Darjeeling, but the woman across from him insisted he'd just never had it prepared right. He purses his lips, giving his cup of tea a quick stir with a cinnamon stick, tapping it against the ceramic.
He had asked her about purchasing the small box he had come across, decorated gold and porcelain, the paint having faded. Something about that box stuck with him even now, as she said it wasn't for sale.
“Is it very valuable?” He asks, watching her take a sip from her teacup, he could see her antique shop across the street, dark and vacant, so out of place.
“That box has lived a life just like you and I, it's rewatched its life more than you or I could ever imagine.”
“That valuable, huh?”
He wondered if perhaps it was a cursed box, some secret hubris he should be thankful this woman was keeping him from, a captive audience under her gaze. He wants to pursue further, he doesn't know why entirely, but that small porcelain box felt important.
The tea room they're in feels more like a steam room, but oddly enough, he'd forgotten what it felt like to meet new people. Would this interaction leave an impact on him in some way?
“It's a mysterious rarity.”
“Do you resent me for having asked?” He laughs a bit, but he's actually being genuine.
She giggles from the lip of her teacup. “That box is just as insecure as you.”
He glances at the faded orchid tattoo on her hand, delicate pink, as she lights herself a cigarette, swirls of smoke dancing in the air.
“I'm too stubborn.” He smiles.
“If you can figure out what motivates you to want that particular box, I'll sell it to you.”
He mulls over her request, bringing his warm cup of tea to his lips for a sip, cinnamon and moss on his tongue, time forgotten for a moment.
“You were right, the tea does taste better with cinnamon.”
The two share a quaint laugh, snowflakes and insights gently hitting the windows.
