Mint Honey Tea

A young artist twirled a pencil in between his long fingers. He pondered the question that always seemed to haunt him. What to draw? He watched people bustle by, their minds revolving around their phones, ignoring the outside world. They were all the same, from the little girl- with a dull gray dress and braids- to the old man motoring around in his wheelchair. They were all in rapture with their tiny mobile devices, not seeing the world as it should be. The little girl should be out playing in the sun with a kite in hand. The man should be visiting with his family, telling them the fantastical tales before the phone. Instead, they both sat in here, screens flashing in front of them, absorbing endless mindlessness.

For the young man, he hesitated drawing another hopeless scene. He feared that with every quick flick of his pencil, he would be pulled more and more into the sad world. There were only tall steel buildings surrounded by more and more steel. They cast long shadows across the cafe, enveloping it in depression

There was no more color in his world. It all seemed to fade away when he was forced to join the real world. His youthful years were filled with bright colors and magical mysteries. The different lines and swirls that brightened his mind and soul. The innocence of childhood helped him create new ideas and whisk them onto paper, then into reality.  But those were shoved into a locked safe with code he would never have. He couldn’t be a child anymore. There was too much expected of him. Too much that the world needed from him. None of which included his pencil and pad. 

The bell at the front door made its bland ringing as it welcomed another guest. The young man ignored it. He didn’t need to see another hopeless addict.

“Eh… Madame?” The waiter sounded… disgusted.

The artist lifted his head and his heart almost flew out of his mouth.

Then a woman across from him. Most people would have called her odd. She didn’t have the unnatural curves that society demanded from females. She looked like a woman from another time. She was naturally healthy and slender, with short brown hair that swayed and swirled around her light pink lips. She wasn’t wearing the latest insane fashions of gaudy gray animal skins and other extinct life forms. Her style consisted of an evergreen shirt with embroidered daisies on the sleeves and collar. A pair of blue denim jeans, and green combat boots that matched her shirt perfectly. She was the perfect portrait of life. But she needed something. Something to make her appear more comfortable in the dullness. He dropped his pencil. The wooden clatter echoed through the quiet shop. No one turned their heads to look at him. Not even her. His eyes never left her face. His heart thrummed against his chest. He swallowed trying to wet his dry mouth and throat. 

“Yes?” She placed a finger on her lips.

“What would you like?” The waiter sneered at her. 

“Just a blueberry cake.” She leaned toward him. 

 The waiter leaned away from her, his mouth twisted in disgust. “Would you like some coffee with that cake?” He spat.

“Oh, no. I don’t like coffee. It’s too mundane and bland.” She sneered back, then leaned back in her chair, “Do you have tea?”

“No. We do not.” The man’s brow furrowed. “No one drinks tea.”

“I figured.” She grumbled and leaned back in her chair. “Well, then. Thank you.” She pulled out a heavy book and lifted it to her nose. The waiter scoffed at her and turned on his heel. Her gaze followed him, before chuckling to herself. She returned to her book, letting it rest on the edge of the table. She began to bite the tip of her mint green nail and smiled at her story. 

The artist spun his pencil before scratching the lead against the paper. His strokes turned his vision into reality. Small gray lines came alive. Her hands delicately held the leather-bound portal that took her anywhere but here. Her eyes scanned the inked pages, understanding more than what the book told. Her soft smile teased him. 

The waiter came out and dropped off a gray plate, with a light airy cake. Another idea came to him.

He then swapped out his normal pencil to his special one. It was passed down, from generation to generation—the only magical item left in this rotting world, he’d guess. He pressed the soft charcoal onto the paper, right on top of the table by her blueberry cake. He let the pencil make a new reality. 

A soft gasp broke his concentration. He looked up to see the girl tracing the lip of a teacup decorated with flowers. Her eyes shot up at him, she stood up from her chair and snapped her book shut. She took a deep breath before collecting her things. 

The young man smiled as she carried her things to his table. The new teacup was held carefully yet tightly in one hand, while everything else was in her other hand. 

She set everything on the table and dragged her chair out. “So.” She pushed the teacup towards him, “You should be more careful with that. I haven’t met a sketcher in a while.” She took her seat.

Her bright hazel eyes had a perfect honeycomb around the iris’; he had zero clue how she managed to get that pattern; not even the wealthiest people could do a natural-looking tattoo on their eyes. They were so much more captivating than he thought. She was the perfect portrait.

“You’ve met other people like me?” he tapped his sketchbook with the edge of his pencil.

“A few. None as good. Their creations were a bit more…” she picked up the teacup, and scanned over the delicate lines. Her eyes fluttered to him and she smiled “Scratchy. You know, less magical. Less real.” she tucked her hands underneath her chin. 

The artist chuckled at her joke, trying to hide the flush creeping on his face. “Sense of humor. I haven’t heard a comedian in a while.” He tucked the pencil behind his ear, “Tell me more about these ‘scratchy sketches.’” he waggled his eyebrows.

The woman smiled and tapped a nail against the porcelain tea cup. “First, guess my drink.”

He leaned back in his chair. He scanned her. She leaned over the table, her nails clicking on the metal surface. Her snarky smile was still painted on her face. “Your favorite drink?”

“Hmm.” She traced one of the delicately painted flowers,  “You heard me talk to the waiter. I am more of a tea fan than a coffee fan. So what’s my favorite cup of tea.” She faced the handle toward him.

He pulled the pencil out from behind his ear and started gnawing on the eraser. The green clothes and daisies spoke more floral and herbal than fruit. With her posture and that snarky attitude, she had to like something more…strong or spicy.

She tapped her temple with her pointed nails and an idea struck him. A tea bag began to form in a few quick strokes and smudges. Thin lines traced a space, then a few more to give it dimension. Little dots filled inside it, followed by the string making sure that the contents of the bag didn’t spill. The boy twirled his pencil, and the tea bag followed the direction. An amber and yellow color started to leak and spread through the inside of the cup. It flowed from the bag, it twirling and dancing in the tiny cup.

The artist picked up his pencil again. The tea bag settles in its new home. Steam rose through the air filling it with a soft earthy smell.

The woman raised an eyebrow. She picked up the cup and inhaled the steam. “Mint and honey.” She took a small sip. “What's your name?”

“Arthur. Yours?”

“Claire.” She smiled and sipped her tea, again. “Now, what’s your first question?”