I love tea.
I love the art, the style, the history of tea ceremonies.
My father had the most beautiful tea set.
Dark wood base, with mother of pearl inlays of dragons. An elaborate brown tea set that would turn dark when wet. Perfect little bamboo tongs to gracefully pickup tea leaves.
I would sit for hours on My heels at that tea set perfecting my pour.
I was impatient then. Trying too hard and too quickly to drink before the tea was properly steeped.
I have since learned how to savor the process and the moments in between each pour and the raising of a delicate tea cup to my lips.
Dressed in a crisp, ironed, white shirt and dark pants arrive at the tea house. You are on time, not a minute too soon or too late.
You greet me with your hands clasped in front of you and give a slight nod just the way I taught you to do so in public. I see you are wearing your leather collar under your white shirt. I smile and nod. You sit in the chair in front of me.
We are surrounded by others in the other tables.
I order tea.
I ask you about your day.
As you answer, I press the ball of my high heeled shoe down between your legs. You let out what sounds like a quiet moan but I tap you sharply on the top of your left hand with my nails, and you are silent.
The tea set arrives in front of you. And we begin.