The Tea House – Part 2: Steeping

"After what?" asked Lucy, softly.

"After dinner. After the rain." Mei's cheeks had gone pink. "I would like to kiss you. If you would like it also."

"I'd like it," said Lucy. "I think I've wanted it since the towel."

Dinner was simple and perfect: hand-folded dumplings, bamboo shoots, a clay pot of broth. They ate at the long table with the lanterns glowing and the rain unrelenting on the roof. Afterwards, Mei made one last pot of tea, an aged tea, dark and smoky, and poured it with enormous care.

"This one is my grandmother's," she said. "It is for special evenings."

"Is this a special evening?"

"I think it is."

The kiss tasted of smoke and honey. Mei's hand, warm from the teapot, slid to the back of Lucy's neck. Lucy laughed against her mouth, delighted, and kissed her back, slowly. The rain came down in sheets. The lanterns swayed.

"The room upstairs is small," said Mei. "It has a bed and a window with a very good view of the mist."

"Take me up."

The upstairs room was wooden and warm under the sloping roof, with a thin mattress on the floor, a silk quilt and a round window looking out on the dripping tea terraces. They undressed slowly by lamplight, laughing at damp socks and tangled hair. Everything between them was patient, unhurried, tender. Like a good tea, it took exactly as long as it needed, and nobody wished it shorter. The rain went on. The hills slept.

In the morning, the sky was washed clean. The terraces blazed green in the sun. Lucy stood at the round window with a cup of tea in both hands, while Mei braided her hair at the mirror.

"My visa runs for another month," said Lucy.

"The summer flush is lovely," said Mei. "Different. Brighter."

"Will you teach me?"

"Every leaf," said Mei, and kissed her shoulder. "Stay."

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