There are teas that I drink at home, those that I drink at work. An overlap exists, the boundary being porous. A penchant for Japanese greens and Taiwanese oolongs in the domestic space, a leaning towards the eclectic at work (Lung Ching and genmaicha are staples).
Home lends itself to the measured whisking of matcha, the liquor lapping languidly on the sides of an earthen bowl. Or the faint green bits of leaves remaining on the bottom of a just-emptied cup of gyokuro, a stray orb of sunlight embracing them.
Tea at work can be a slapdash affair. I heat water in a microwave still redolent of someone's pot pie. I drink tea at my desk in front of a blinking computer screen, the inundated inbox never faraway.
But I can turn away from the screen, in company or alone, noting the wisp of steam rising from my cup.