Tea

The tea flowed into the cup, orange-brown and steaming, as the bell at the door of the gallery chimed. She looked up, surprise colouring her expression, it was late in the day and if she was honest, no one ever came in anyway. This place was her pipe dream; a tiny gallery of her work arranged in an oddly shaped commercial space that no one else would rent. It cost little, the stairs that went no where but filled half the width of the room may have had something to do with it.

A man, smartly dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks, with a jacket slung over his shoulder looked around inquisitively as he closed the old wooden door behind him. She became suddenly aware that her hair was frizzy due to the summer humidity and her linen overalls were saggy and paint marked. The idea that she was married also fluttered in and out of her mind. She finished pouring the tea into her battered lavender printed mug and put the pot down.

The man walked up the long narrow aisle towards the desk, a dark walnut piece from the Victorian era that characterized the colonial past of the city. He stopped to examine a painting, one of her Georgian Bay pieces, windswept trees, and frothy waves under a brilliant blue sky. He leaned into the painting, his eyes inches from the canvas. She was instantly embarrassed. What had she been thinking, trying to sell her work like a real artist! She fumbled with her mug and sipped the tea- burning her lip in the process. Her gasp must have been too loud, the man looked up.

He seemed faintly familiar; his strong jaw and wavy auburn hair looking like some F Scott Fitzgerald character from the Gilded Age. His eyes were blue, bluer than the sky in the painting he was standing beside. He smiled, and it was dazzling.

“Hello,” he said, smooth British accent included.

“Hi, uh, hello” she replied, long forgotten sounds making it into her reply as she recalled a forgotten life. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” the smile took any sting out of the words, “I’m looking for Jessica Winsley.”

“That’s me! I mean, it was, I am Jessica Browning now. But Winsley was my name before I got married. I’m sorry, have we met before? My memory is not what it was.” Her brain frantically ransacked the depths of her mind for where she might know him from, but came up empty as was usual these days.

That smile again, and a glance down before he said, “Yes actually. We went to secondary school together. It was more than thirty-five years ago though and, in another country, altogether. I am Justin Langdon Green.”

Inside her stomach fluttered nervously and sweat beaded her brow. She was sure that her hair was probably expanding like the fur on a frightened cat as she held out her hand to him. “Wow, wow…. it’s lovely to see you again! Wow. Uh, what brings you to this neck of the world- woods. I mean woods.”

He laughed, the smile reaching his eyes She was suddenly transported to 1987. 15 years old, standing against the wall of the upper school with her friends, as the cool kids wander past, him smiling at some joke and looking like a Greek god. It was not a pleasant memory. It brought back teenaged angst, embarrassing feelings of unrequited desire and a weird sense of déjà vu. She was aware that she was staring, realizing he had answered, and she had not heard a word.

“Cool! That’s interesting,” she babbled, hoping she made some sense. “Can I get you a mug of tea?” and launched into pouring a second mug.

He nodded and looked around her tiny shop. “This is lovely, how long have you been painting?”

“Oh this? Ha, this is just a hobby. I work full time as an educational assistant with the local school board. I come here in the afternoons after school is out, for a couple of hours. This is something we agreed (my husband and I) that I could do once we had paid off the mortgage, for my mental health. Not that I am mental. I mean I am healthy, mentally so. How are you?” her palms were sweating, and inside she felt like she was dying, years of being a functional adult disappearing like rice paper in rain.

“I am doing very well thank you.” He took the tea and stood leaning on the counter. “I am doing some travelling, after my divorce and losing my dad last year, I had the time and money, so I decided to do some exploring. This place has been on my list for years. I was talking to Angela Ball at a garden party last summer, remember her from sixth form? She mentioned you had moved here a couple of years after college so I thought I would look you up when I was in town. The old Facebook trick helped.”

She looked down, the mug trembling in her gripped hands. What was happening? At this stage of her life, she should not feel so flustered and unprepared. Her stomach gurgled embarrassingly, and she coughed to cover the noise.

“It has been years hasn’t it.” Stupid – of course it had. “I am married now, have been for more than two decades. Three kids, two grown and off doing their thing and one still at home. My husband works in engineering; he’s a wonderful man.” Again, stupid- why, why? Gah, seeing someone you were attracted to as a teen should banned by the Universe or whatever God there was out there. This was mortifying.

He smiled again, and it was like the sun coming out on a summer morning. “That is good to hear. Lucky guy.” He took a deep breath and looked up into her eyes. She felt dizzy but could not look away. He spoke quietly.

“I thought of you often over the years. If you had stayed in Britain, I like to think we would have been together. There is something about you.” Brushing his hand through his hair, he continued almost shyly, “But there you are, fate had other plans.” He leaned towards her, looking steadily into her eyes and suddenly she knew what this was.

She swallowed. Her heart pounded like it was going to burst from her chest, and she put her mug down on the counter. She let go a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. The years dropped from her eyes, and she saw the gangly fifteen-year-old boy with blue eyes and red hair, always making the girls laugh and including her even when the others were being cold or standoffish. He had made her feel like she belonged a little, sitting next to her on the bus on long trips and inviting her to the parties held at the big houses. He had been kind at a time when she needed kindness and a desire to be seen. Her brain fizzled- did people really do stuff like this? 1987 was a lifetime ago, this wasn’t the movies and she wasn't a movie starlet. With a shaking voice she spoke,

“It’s been great to see you! If you are in town for a few more days, I would love to introduce you to my family. You could come for dinner, up at the cottage?”

This time the smile was tinged with regret and sadness and a little disappointment. He stepped back from the counter. “That sounds nice. But unfortunately, I have a train to catch for the next leg of my trip. I appreciate the offer. It was really good to see you. Thanks for the tea.”

He put the mug, mostly untouched, down on the counter and walked to the door. She did not move. He opened the door, the bell jangling loudly in the silence, and turned. Without looking directly at her, he said, “it would have been amazing though.” She got the impression he wasn’t talking about dinner.

After the door closed, she stood very still for a long while. Then she poured the now cold tea down the sink, washed up both mugs and shut off the lights. Locking the door behind her, she stepped out into the warm evening air, cicadas still buzzing in the trees and walked to catch her bus home.