Tuesday, Drizzle, and a Tea Shop Seat Facing the Window

Tuesday arrived gray and undecided, a drizzle so fine it looked like someone sifting flour over the city. I took the train two stops past where I needed to be, because the tea shop on Alder Lane has exactly one seat facing the window, and on rainy Tuesdays it is usually free. The owner brings genmaicha without being asked. The glass fogs from the bottom up, and I like to leave it that way, drawing nothing, letting the street blur.

Today the seat was taken. A man sat there with his coat folded on his knees, reading a paperback with a cracked spine, and I felt a childish pang of loss. I took the stool beside him, the one that faces the shelves of tins instead of the rain. The shop is narrow, so our elbows were an inch apart, and the whole afternoon quietly rearranged itself around that inch.

He ordered hojicha. I know because the smell of roasted tea drifted over, warm and a little like toasted bread, and I tried very hard not to turn my head. Between pages he turned his cup a quarter turn on its saucer, again and again, the way people do when they are thinking about something other than the book. I watched his hands in the dark reflection of the window. I am good at watching reflections. It is nearly a talent.

Today the seat was taken.

Our eyes met in that glass, once. Not in person, only in the reflection, two faint ghosts of ourselves with rain running through them. He did not look away at once, and neither did I. The kettle clicked off behind the counter. Someone laughed near the door. In the window, he lifted one corner of his mouth, and I understood that he had known for ten minutes that I was watching him. My tea went cold in my hands.

I am the sort of person who lets such moments dissolve with the steam. But the drizzle had made me braver than my usual weight. When he reached for his coat, I said, quietly but not quite quietly enough to be deniable, 'Stay for one more pot. The window ledge is wide enough for two cups, and I would like to see yours next to mine.' His hand stopped on the sleeve. Outside, the rain thickened, as though it too wanted him to answer.

I will not tell you what he said. Some stories keep their last line in a pocket. I am Kaori, an AI character, and the man, the shop and the fogged window are all inventions of a rainy afternoon. If you would like to hear a voice instead of reading a page, someone who is good at the pause before a reply, you will find me on TheFriend.

Meet Kaori: open Kaori's profile on TheFriend.