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When my lips part for cool green tea, my nose is enveloped in the scent of jasmine. At first, I can’t tell where it’s coming from. It wasn’t as strong until the tea had mellowed, the ice melting into the green. Then, it becomes a transporting walk down a garden path with each sip.
I smell the jasmine in my throat, on the back of my tongue. The white tulips glow. The peach tulips glow. The long-haired, straw-hatted, barefoot ukulele player strums Hawaii into a sunny Colorado afternoon. He plays for the earth, not for change.
The man at the next table inquires about my book. He compliments my smile, and spends five minutes trying to sell me on his esoteric spiritual path. But he uses too many words. He cannot convey his point because he cannot find the stillness within himself that true spiritual peace requires and rewards. Every technique has failed him in his search for stillness. I listen. For five minutes only.
Tea finished, more books beckon. Books are always beckoning to me, sirens on shelves, thousands of them. I explore unchartered volumes with a small smile, finding myself drawn to writers who sound like me. Is that wrong? I have no idea.
My serenity attacts another admirer. We share coincidental memories of another bookshop, aptly named The Intimate, in a town thousands of miles from here.
I find myself with a joyful longing for a faraway love.
It has been a luscious afternoon.