Tearoom

He won't come.

The waitress just brought me a pot of hot, fragrant tea and, I hope, a delicious cake. She also set down a blue, slightly faded porcelain cup. One.

I like this tiny teahouse on one of the smaller, forgotten streets, where only the occasional lost tourist ventures. Walking inside, you feel like you've entered an alternative world. The long, narrow room is lit only by candles, set in wonderful, "antique" and variously adorned candlesticks. Dark wooden chairs with satin cushions stand at small tables covered with yellowed, beautiful, original lace. There were few people, and they spoke in hushed tones.

He won't come. It's too intimate here.

He enjoys attending matches, sometimes wearing a scarf, shouting, laughing, and being more aware of the situation than many a bald fan. Then, he joins everyone for a beer. Sometimes I can take her to the movies, especially if there are a lot of people going. She can hide in a crowd of friends. And a meeting like this, in a tea room—it's our private space, after all—it's like a date. She seems to understand that too.

The tea smells wonderful. I ordered the kind she likes. With hibiscus and raspberries.

I look at the cake. If I eat it and she comes, I'll have to eat another one, and she'll think, or even laugh out loud, that I'm a glutton. And I don't want that. God, why do I care? She's not coming, and everything I do is with the thought that she will. I ordered her tea, a whole pot (so I don't look cheap). I asked for one cup so she wouldn't think I was waiting. I put on a navy blue sweater because she says I look good in dark colors. I sat at her favorite round table, away from the door, between the old piano and the shelf full of vinyl records and old magazines. I even have a book (by Mrożek, because she highly recommended it). She also always reads while she eats. It's crazy.

I can dance with her, but I can't hug her. She can kiss me on the cheek, but I can't kiss her. She can nudge me gently, laughing, sometimes even touch my hand, but she won't take my hand, going thoughtfully for a long evening walk, when spring begins to awaken all the grass and trees, when the scent of the sea wafts through her hair, when her eyes sparkle with a distant, cold light.

I can meet her, but not arrange a date.

Tea has a fantastically warming power. I could close my eyes and lose myself in its aroma, but I'm afraid I'll miss her arrival. It's five past six. The old, grandfather clock ticks away the minutes inexorably. She's never late. In fact, I can leave now.

Maybe her watch stopped, maybe the bus didn't come (she's always complaining about public transportation), maybe her heel broke (even though she usually wears Doc Martens), maybe she got hit by a car and is lying unconscious in the street. Oh, God, that's not what I wanted to think about.

We'll meet tomorrow. Arek is throwing a party to celebrate the "unexpected end" of winter, and she'll be there too. Of course, I won't ask why she didn't come. I'll just say I've been waiting. She'll answer, her eyes turning icy, that we didn't arrange, that she didn't say she was coming, that I only said we could meet. And instead of shouting at her, telling her what I think, instead of calling her unacceptable behavior, her pride and ignorance, instead of forcing her to cry with harsh words, I'll be mesmerized by her lips, always too red. I'll be hypnotized by their currant color, the uneven amplitude of their vibrations as she explains herself (no! – while she softly hums a Nirvana song), their incredible shape, clearly etched on her porcelain skin.

I won't say a word, and she'll drift off to the rhythm of the song, into her own world, pretending nothing happened. And she'll fall asleep in the morning, not remembering me at all.

A beautiful young woman in a long black coat and a short dress entered the tearoom. She entered alone, and such women don't go to restaurants alone. For a moment, while she was still in the shadows, I thought... But no, too tall, too blond, too genuine, and too much with the guy who burst in a moment later, probably parking his car around the corner.

But beautiful. She enters, looks around, chooses a table, a round one against the wall, then I burst in (I think I was parking my scooter!), and she's waiting for me with a smile and hot, fragrant tea.

The tea has gone cold, leaving only its cold, sticky aroma at the bottom of the cup. Good thing I only asked for one. But the waitress guessed I was waiting for someone. I didn't open my book and kept looking at the door.

Why doesn't she tell me straight to my face that nothing will come of it? Why is she keeping me in suspense? What am I saying? She's said it more than once, she said it before we met, she says it every day, extinguishing my heated glances with the coldness of her eyes. And yet I think... She says I have a pleasant voice and pretty eyes. That I can listen to music and tell stories. That I have good taste, a nice dog, and that I'm a good swimmer. He likes watching movies with me and swapping books... So why?

One last glance at the table. I also like sitting here, listening to soft music, looking at the candles, inhaling the steam from the teapots. I move slowly, between the occupied tables toward the exit. A faint chime. The door opened.

She didn't come.