Plaster dust hangs in the air. The thick motes tickle my nostrils, drawing sneezes, watering eyes.
The sound of boots stamping up the stairs. A workman with an armful of tiles trudges in while the cats scatter.
A pair of green phosphorescences peers out from a sheath of fur. Crouched behind an armchair, his ears stand ramrod.
I go to my nook, my lair in the shade. I sit with a gaiwan of oolong, my prized Tung Ting from Taiwan.
The tea is light. The floral essence warms my palate. I close my eyes and summon up the peak of Tung Ting Mountain, the lush tea-gardens in its shadow. Thud, thud -the hammering upstairs fades away.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment