Pausing befere the glass door of Gundri Bazaar Tea Boutique, there floated in Zion's territory of consciousness, a vagabond memory from long ago. It presented itself like a forgotten leaf, wedged between the inked memories of journal, now shrivelled and old. Eight form, physics class.
Mr. Marzban was demonstrating the class Newton's third law of motion: To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The rubber ball he threw towards the desk bounced back. Mr. Marzban could not catch it. Thus, Newton's law accompanied by their physics teacher's poor reflex skills were displayed that fateful afternoon.
With the hands of clock pointing twenty-three minutes behind the time Zion promised to pick up his mother, he wondered about her reaction.
His arrival into the boutique was heralded by a cheerful tinkering of bell above the door. He scanned the place with a child's alacrity. Patterns on delicate china: beautiful calligraphy of oriental languages, emerald dragons with tails belted around the neck of teacups, abstract imprint of zodiacs; teapots, lots and lots of teapots, their rotund belly gleaming from the muted light of bulbs suspended from a chandelier, boxes of tea exhibited on shelves which once functioned as ladders.
Spotting his mother among the handful, scattered customers was easy. The fiery red of her hair, the plain appearance fitting her, the small glint on her neck- the silver crucifix, Zion could point her out from far away.
Measured steps traversed the distance from where he stood, gawking at his surroundings, to his mother's table.
Susie was fixated by a book whose cover had a sketch of a sasuage. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a drawing of an elongated dog, the title reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera.
He cleared his throat. "Hello, mother."
"Hello, Zion." She looked up from her book and commented, "You look different."
"No. It's just my hair. It's..." Zion made an upward motion with his hand. "ruffled. Makes me look tall, I guess."
"You are tall." Susie ministered her attention to the cup of tea.
"Thanks, mother." An almost sheepish mumble and the chair opposite his mother's was occupied.
"The oolong tea is wonderful here."
"Is that what you are drinking?"
"Yes. Do you want it?"
"I want coffee, actually."
After scrutinizing for authenticity in his sentence, his mother reminded him, "This is a tea boutique, Zion."
Varied paths, mandatory freewill, the conversation could head any direction. He had the choice of humorous approach, or offensive retaliation, or a jab at silence; endless possibilities. Words did not have to hurt necessarily, plunge deeper into the old wounds formed by its predecessor.
"Lemon tea. Do they serve that?"
Thus, his order was placed.
When the warm liquid teased his tastebuds and glided down his throat, the citric smell and the floating remnants of lime in a sea of weak brown liquid, Susie brought up her question of Zion's work. It was the only time she ever asked.
"Did you take a leave?"
Zion looked up from the book jacket, face down, its spine forming a lilliputan tent.
"From your work." Susie explained further.
"Yeah. I can work overtime other days. Or may be turn up Sunday."
YOU ARE READING
Bottle Green Daffodil
General FictionWhen intervention, in an unlikely form, makes two individuals head for Heathcliffe, their paths cross and collide. One is a loner yet to get over his best friend's premature death; the other is trying to evade reality for a best friend who is imagin...
