Lukewarm

“Isn’t this just divine? Da-viiiinnne?” Lisa stretched the word until it nearly snapped—not unlike the spandex pencil skirt she was wearing. She smoothed the cloth napkin on her lap, while squeezing Jesse’s hand under the table.

Jesse looked around the famed ‘Russian Tea Emporium’ and had to admit that the physical surroundings were impressive: the opulent jewel tones, the warm fire, the ornate artwork, the array of golden samovars—one shinier than the next. The life-like crystal bear sculpture, although a bit over-the-top, was amusing. He’d heard a few of the account executives from work had come here for the ‘business express lunch’, bragging over how much they’d charged to their expense accounts.

“Divine, sure, I guess, but you already know my feelings on tea…. Everyone knows that coffee is for celebrations: happy times, socializing, dessert--as in “cake and …”, whereas tea is for illness, divorce, and death. If I’ve said that once, I’ve said that a thousand times. Also, we’re going to pay for the tiny food in this over-inflated tea party, and then need to go to the diner afterwards for real food.… You do realize?”

“Jesse, No. You’ll see, wait until the caviar arrives!”

“Caviar? You want to order caviar?!! You know we can’t afford caviar! I told you I’m sure I’m getting sacked this week or next, latest. They’ve already let half the department go. And you want caviar?”

“You’ve been saying they were going to fire you since the day we met—three years ago. You’re always so negative. It will be fine. Oh, let’s pick a fun tea! Let’s see…. There’s Mint Verbena—I don’t know what a “verbena” is, but it sounds delish. And, Darjeeling—you might like that—you can close your eyes and pretend it’s your beloved coffee—Ha! There’s a classic English Breakfast, and of course, Chamomile! I was going to pick something new, but you know how I love my Chamomile. What looks good to you?”

Nothing, Jesse thought, nothing looks good to me, but he knew he couldn’t say that aloud. Chamomile: it was as if an apple and a bunch of dandelions created a love child in some dirty dishwater for the night. Yuck. This idea of “having afternoon tea like they were royalty” was important to her. “Fun tea” as far as Jesse was concerned was an oxymoron. He’d told Lisa several times: tea was for misery. That was what he’d observed watching his mother all the years of his childhood. If the teapot came out, you hit the decks and waited until everything blew over. It was tea when Mom announced she’d left Dad, tea when his favorite uncle had died, tea with lemon and honey whenever anyone was sick. Tea was associated with every bad memory he ever had. In fact, forcing him to have ‘afternoon tea’ felt extra passive-aggressive, even by Lisa’s standards.

When the waiter arrived, Lisa took charge, ordered, and quickly dispatched him. He felt sorry for the guy, really. Having to pretend he stepped out of a Tolstoy novel? Worst still, he looked like a penguin with his slicked-back hair and his double-breasted black coat and tails. And that Russian accent? Jesse would bet his last paycheck the guy was an out-of-work actor from Queens, having memorized a few lines. No doubt he’d rather be home watching the game in his sweats, just like Jesse.

“What’s that purple stuff in the egg-shaped dish?” Jesse nodded toward the next table.

“Oh, that’s borscht! It’s their ‘house special’: pickled red beets, seasonal vegetables … there’s some dill in there, boiled potato and sour cream. It’s like a beet explosion in your mouth…. Yummy. He’ll bring us some.”

Jesse heard nothing after “pickled”. Everything else sounded like the teacher from “Charlie Brown”. If he was being honest, a lot of what Lisa said these days sounded like that … a combination of muffled yet whiny. Why did she think he wanted to spend his Sunday eating microscopic, weird food and drinking wretched tea? One consolation: he hoped this outing would score him enough “boyfriend points” to heat up their lukewarm love life in the bedroom later.

The waiter arranged the teacups and expertly poured the Chamomile for Lisa and the Darjeeling for Jesse. The food was going to be “right out’”. Fabulous. It was all Jesse could do to keep from laughing aloud imagining the chefs dicing their sandwiches into tiny triangles, making the equivalent of “Lunchables” for grown adults. Lisa, however, looked delighted, licking her lips, and smiling at the waiter in anticipation.

It was going to be a long, long afternoon, and Lisa was going to come home smelling of beets.

***

Things had been extra tense lately. So tense that Lisa had taken to sleeping at work—or so she said. As a designer in a flower shop, was she really cuddled up with the thorny long-stemmed roses in the refrigerator case? Doubtful. Still, though, seeing no one new on the horizon, Jesse was going to try to make it work with Lisa.

His plan: He would head back to that ‘Russian Tea Emporium’ Lisa liked so much, the one they had visited three months ago, and buy their signature-blend Chamomile--in bulk. Things had been at least somewhat tolerable when Lisa was drinking Chamomile. Somewhat. She’d still have her emotional outbursts, but they were happier then. Now that she had started drinking Darjeeling on the regular, she had become unbearable. If he had to hear once more how, “Darjeeling was the Champagne of Teas”. That was the problem with Lisa, she had Champagne tastes and Caviar dreams, and the pocketbook to support neither.

“Ah, the ‘Russian Tea Emporium,’ somehow more garishly opulent than the last time….” Jesse had meant to hold that thought inside, but it had slipped out….

“Sir?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you still carried those bulk-sized bags of Chamomile?”

The name tag on the waiter’s penguin suit was about as fake as his accent: “Alexei”.

“Hey, wait a minute, haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Other than here?”

“Nyet, sir. Nyet.” Alexei’s watery-blue eyes shifted around the room.

“Look, you don’t have to do that accent thing with me. I get it. I’d probably pretend I came out of a scene in “War and Peace”, too, if I thought it’d do my career any good.”

“Sir? I’ll get the tea for Lisa.” Alexei’s words came out soft and fragile, a stark contrast to the crisp blini he spent his days serving.

“Wait, did you just say, "Lisa"?”

“Nyet. I’ll get the tea.”

“No, that’s not what you said. You mentioned Lisa, or at least, I thought I heard you mention Lisa. My girlfriend. How do you know her name?”

“Why would … uh … Alexei … know the name of your Lisa, sir?”

On the walk back to the apartment the pieces fell into place. Jesse had seen a man with slicked-back hair leaving Lisa’s flower shop only last week…. And that mumbling Lisa was doing in her sleep—my gosh, had that been Russian? This, “Alexei”, was he the reason for her extra primping? Her nights away?

Oh, ‘Darjeeling’ what have you done?

***

Jesse sipped at his lukewarm coffee trying to decide if he should get up and microwave this current cup or start fresh with a new one. Given his nerves today, maybe he should let the lukewarm coffee turn cold, which would act as an incentive to drink a little less. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and rubbed his eyes.

Coffee. It was a funny thing: piping hot it was delicious. Ice cold, it was equally, if not more, delicious. Lukewarm or cold--it was garbage. That, too, was how he felt about his love life lately. It was garbage. Lisa had left his confidence shredded. His lukewarm existence was quickly turning cold--threatening to swallow him in a loveless rut if he wasn’t careful.

He would focus on coffee: happy times. Perhaps he’d bring a cup of steaming hot coffee over to that steaming hot redhead in accounting. But what if she was a tea drinker? Well, that would cool things quickly. Tea. He had been right about it all along: it was for illness, divorce, death, and now it was also the beverage of break-ups. After what had gone down with Lisa, he promised himself he was never going to date a tea-drinker again. And, he was definitely going to run his “coffee/tea litmus test” earlier in a relationship.

That redhead. Jesse wondered why he’d never noticed her before. Now that he had though, he couldn’t let go of the fantasy of snuggling up in bed with her, sharing a pot of Colombian Dark Roast, while chipping away at the Times Crossword. Or, oh, maybe a sexy French Press—Hello! This steamy image was immediately replaced by the one he feared most: the one that saw him picking up shriveled, old Chamomile tea bags strewn across the bedside nightstand. Lisa had said Chamomile “soothed her” which was ironic because she didn’t seem so “soothed” while she was tossing his clothes out the apartment window. The events of their last time together still stung….

“I’m simply asking you directly, are you having an affair with that fake-wannabe-Russian waiter from the Tea Emporium? Simple question: ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?”

“Jesse! What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

“You know, you really should switch to decaf. You’re starting to sound crazy.”

“Yes, that’s the other thing. You were always, “Chamomile, Chamomile, Chamomile … and now you’re all Darjeeling, Darjeeling, Darjeeling…. Is that because of him? And, when you’re here at night—which is hardly ever lately--you’ve been talking in your sleep, Lisa, and it isn’t all in English!”

“I’m sure it’s just gibberish. You know how I am when I’m asleep.”

“Well, if that’s all it is, then you won’t mind handing me your phone.”

“Jesse. Come on, baby. This is so crazy. Let’s forget this. Let’s go to that café you like, the one with the impossible hipsters…. We can count beanies and beards the way you like to….”

“The phone, Lisa.”

“Fine! Take the phone. Take it! I was going to tell you anyway….”

The sheer quantity of texts from Alexei was evidence enough. But somehow the Foreign Language app still open to Russian was the final straw. It was mere luck that Jesse caught Lisa before she poured his prized Colombian coffee beans down the garbage disposal. It had been a surprisingly full-bodied and robust ending for a relationship that had long since grown lukewarm. Who would have predicted the entirety of their time together ending with Jesse screaming, “It takes two to Duolingo, Lisa!” Two!!!” … as Lisa slammed the door behind her.

***

Now, free and clear of his former entanglement, Jesse would take a cup of coffee over to the redhead in accounting. It might seem odd, but he needed to know where she stood on the coffee/tea matter. If she thought he was crazy, there was always the blonde in marketing. He’d already seen her at the coffee pot, several times, so she was a sure thing. Although he wasn’t so sure the blonde was Times Crossword Puzzle material—especially not Sunday Times Crossword Puzzle material. Which, if he was being completely honest with himself, was the kind of depth he was looking for at this point in his life.

O.K., what would he say to her? It would help if he had a bit of clever small talk he could make. Think, Jesse, think. Another cup of coffee would really help with this. Hot coffee. Nothing made the synapses fire like hot coffee. Jesse walked over to the breakroom just as the redhead made her way there as well. It was fate!

“Hi.” (That’s all I can say? Were her eyes always that green?)

“Hello. How’s the coffee today?” The redhead smiled back at him as she went to pour herself a cup.

“It’s pretty low-grade, but at least it’s not tea.” (Oh, Jesse, man, really?) Jesse stole a peek out of the corner of his eye. Did she agree?

“You bloody Americans. What have you got against a good cuppa?” The redhead’s British accent now seemed very pronounced. She feigned annoyance, but she smiled at him as she grabbed for the orange-handled pot.

Jesse swallowed a thick wad of whatever it was that had gathered up in his throat. She was British? How could he not have spotted the signs? At least she was a coffee drinker—

“Well, I … I … just meant when you want coffee, and there’s only … tea, it can be a bit of a …  letdown. Not that there’s anything wrong with tea, of course.” Jesse stammered. (Although this was a total lie. There was a lot wrong with tea. Those Chamomile tea bags of Lisa’s—those had been little harbingers of doom signaling their lack of compatibility—landmines dotted around the bedroom timed to explode.)

“I’m just messing with you, bloke…. I’m actually the only British woman who never developed a liking for tea.” The redhead smiled and extended her hand. “Name’s Lucinda. Nice to meet you.”

“Big Ben?” Jesse asked as he gently shook her hand.

“That’s what they call you, “Big Ben”? Well, that’s different, but O.K. then, nice to know you Big Ben.” Lucinda winked.

Jesse laughed. “No, sorry, I just wondered how you felt about Big Ben? It’s about the only other British thing I know. I’m Jesse.”

“Just a clock to me.”

“And The Queen?”

“Well, now, I’m not completely bonkers. Of course, I love the Queen Mum. It would be blasphemy if I didn’t. Funny that you mention that, I was just taking a break, and “Meghan Markle” was the answer to ‘Ten Across’ in today’s Times Crossword. Well, have a good one, Big Ben-Jesse.” Lucinda smiled as she tossed her cream stirrer in the bin and walked away.

“Yes, you, too.” Jesse said to the air left hanging in her absence, too stunned by her Crossword comment to say a proper ‘goodbye’. He could no longer feel the heat of his coffee cup, because now, compared to the fire in the rest of his body, it felt lukewarm.

Yes, it was going to be the redhead in accounting. Her hair. Her eyes. Her accent. Her apparent love of crossword puzzles and most importantly—her aversion to tea. She was perfect. She was intoxicating. She was the heat his lukewarm life needed.

There was only one thing: Would she go for him?

After-all, her taste was a bit suspect: she had gone for the decaf.