(and that’s kind of the same thing) *
The mornings are tinted in a haze of pastel; burnt orange horizons peaked at six in the morning. They wash over the sky and go still. Sunlight hits the windows in a soft murmur, bouncing off the kitchen table, illuminating a borrowed copy of Murakami’s Wind Up Bird and the polished tea set beside it (apricot tea, as expected of a Saturday).
I once accused my friend of being terribly coffee-biased and she shot right back that it was the same with me and tea. Oddly enough, I realized then and there, that there was nothing in particular I savored about the taste of tea. But I did like picking through the assortment of flavors at the store – spiced apple chai, mint green, pomegranate and raspberry – as I lucidly imagined its essence coming to life. I liked the wild claims that tea companies tended to make about how stress, sleep, and anxiety problems could be solved with a single sip. And the idea that there were “teas that fit every mood”, “uplifted your spirit”, and “coaxed you to sleep”.
Moreover, I liked the feeling of Saturday mornings, novel in one hand, tea in the other. I liked the golden honey color, the whiff of apricot, the state of feeling awake and thinking, that for once, I was drinking something healthy.