by Ariel Maccarone
I drink my tea cold. That’s just the way it goes. It’s how I prefer it. And I know it sounds crazy. But anyone who really knows me knows that I prefer to eat like I did as a child – everything lukewarm and just a bit too sweet. I take at least fifteen minutes preparing it – from boiling the water, to steeping the leaves, to measuring out the perfect ratio of tea to sugar to milk. And I judge it all according to taste.
I want someone to love me for this. I want someone to smile to themselves while staring at my brow, and the unconscious way it furrows when I’m focused. I want them to look at this and find it painfully endearing.
So, now, darling…
Will you watch me make tea? Do you think your chest would warm and pulse at the thought of the lukewarm, slightly-too-sweet way I prefer everything? Because, darling…to me…that is love.
Would you like to take tea with me? My ride won’t be here for a bit longer. And, though we’ve only just met, I think I’d love to know what you look like with a furrowed brow.