Earl Grey Everywhere

Colin, this is how I know I’m totally besotted with you: No matter which place I’m in, from the dizzying buzz of London’s streets to a sun-bathed tropical plain, I smell earl grey everywhere when I think of you.

 I just can’t deny it. It seems that anytime my mind fixes itself on your honeyed smile or your warm velvet laugh, every single drop of affection in me boils over until it whistles in my ear. Then, like clockwork, the air infuses itself with the sweet hints of bergamot rind and an aromatic haze of lapsang --- pervasive like the images of you inside me. At that point, I’m helpless. I must barrel down the stairs, head to the kitchen, retrieve a mug, and brew myself a cup of tea, just so you can coat my tongue with your bouquet. 

Of course, when I first walked into that café, I had no idea that all the rivers of my memory would be steeped in you. If I could be honest, I don’t normally wander into The Rose Tea Room. Yet, somehow, that day, the large, crimson mural blooms, the ornate lamps with wrought-iron birds, the turquoise-painted tables --- all of them beckoned me to come in, to lose myself in the heady cloud of roasted leaves, woody herbs, and dried fruit. 

However, every single gaseous molecule dissipated as soon as I saw those celadon eyes framed by long chestnut lashes. I remember how intoxicated I was, as if I’d sipped some witch’s potion, watching them flit about on the menu board posted in front of you. You droned out a single ‘Uhm’, and I was plonked into a puddle of longing. 

‘I have no idea what to get,” I heard you mutter, the faintest note of confusion in your voice.

At that moment, an invisible plume of steam built up in me, forcing its way to come out the only spout it could.

‘Yeah, I highly recommend the earl grey. It’s roasted just right, and the citrus note is perfect,’ I blurted out, each word jetting from my mouth. 

Before I could even cover my mouth in embarrassment, you broke into a smile, clotted cream teeth shining between parted strawberry jam lips, and thanked me. I wanted so badly to invite you to my table, to imbibe the matcha of your irises from up close. How could I, though, when my throat dried up like a flower in the flames?

From then on, I’ve smelled earl grey everywhere.

I smell earl grey in the black, lacquered stacks of Waterstones. I often catch you there, your chestnut waves slightly tousled by a whiff of breeze from outside. From behind a shelf, I observe you study the vast selection of tomes, grin, and scrupulously pick out novels as if they were orange pekoe . As I imagined it were my hands that your long, muscular fingers were caressing, that familiar perfume infuses itself.

The scent transports me to your arms as you sit with your feet up on the sofa. I gaze up at you as your invigorating voice evocatively sounds out every word in the pages in you hold. Cerulean mugs on the table we’ve selected together, we soak into bliss until the waters of time turns into gold. You’d then touch your lips on mine, my heart blooming like an entire garden of flowers.

I smell earl grey in the kettle-on-fire environment of the newsroom I work in. It could be just the mention of a lucky sod christened the same name as you on the teleprompter. It could be the appearance of your Devonian hometown in my news report. It could be the green klieg lights reminding me of your eyes. As soon as tiny bubbles of you form in the surface tension of my mind, that familiar perfume infuses itself.

The scent transports me to my work desk, the studio empty save for me furiously researching a lead on my laptop. Suddenly, I feel your muscular arms snake around my waist, your soft pecks on my shoulders as comforting as lavender-infused milk. I’d then turn around, and you’d present me with a multicoloured array of tulips.

As you beam at me, my vision turns as blush hued as noon chai.

I smelled earl grey in the old, bustling streets of Paris during my last holiday. My laurel-coloured pumps trod the same pavements you once paced up and down during your year at Sciences Po, and I grin. As I passed by artisanal cafés on cobblestone lanes, the aromas from each melding into an olfactory symphony, the familiar perfume infused itself. 

The scent transported me to La Bossue, a charming, light-filled joint in Montmartre that you frequented in the City of Lights. Beside me, you sipped a Darjeeling as you rubbed small circles on my palm. As you pressed your muscatel-soaked lips onto mine, warmth gushed forth in my veins.

I even smelled earl grey in the fertile rice fields of the Philippines where I was assigned to be a correspondent. As I observed palms showered with morning dew on my way to an interview, my thoughts transfigured the verdure into the jades you viewed the world with. As the rich smell of tablea cocoa permeated the atmosphere in my home for two years, the familiar perfume infused itself.

The scent transported me to a powdery, white shoreline facing the Pacific. Your soft, gossamer kisses on my bronzed skin flooded my insides with even more heat that the scorching sun above. As cinnamon oil was diffused from the pathway of lit candles leading to you kneeling on one knee, my entire being percolated in joy.

Yes, Colin, when I think of you, I’m encased in a citrusy haze of imagination, of all that I’ve dreamt of. And then, the steam must clear and there you are, with her.

I know. In those book shop haunts, it’s Susanna you read romance novels to, whose oolong eyes you drink as you peek from a page. It’s her whose desk you sneakily grace with a dozen roses, the bouquet so strong that it dances on her taste buds. It’s Susanna whose green tea perfume tickled your nose as you strolled next to her around the French capital. It’s her you offered a macaron-shaped box with a diamond ring inside. 

Susanna is the cup that will forever know your lips. My heart, meanwhile, will always be chipped.

I suppose, at least, I’ll always have the scent of earl grey everywhere. At least…

‘Yeah, I know you always get the earl grey. Can you try something else, though?’

I turn around to stare at a tall, ginger-haired man biting his lip nervously. His searching sencha eyes glisten in The Rose Tea Room’s amber lights like a freshly poured brew.

‘Yes, I guess I can. What do you recommend?’

‘Well, what about the peppermint tea. It’s extra refreshing because they picked the finest leaves. And…uh..’

‘And what?’

‘And it would be better if you shared a pot with me. I'm Callum, by the way.'