Posts Tagged ‘peppermint’

I trip over your chair, an embarrassing entrance, but it makes for an immediate introduction. We shake hands. You’re pleased to meet me. You describe things as wonderful or heartbreaking. Under the first agenda point, I volunteer a project idea. Pens scribbles and I write it down myself, to remember, to join in. You touch the collar of your leather jacket and speak of women in prisons. The air is full of tentative, eager exchanges, with something in it sad and regretful. I drink a peppermint tea. We all do. This speaks volumes about the type of people we are.


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Latte, espresso, cappuccino. Helpfulness is next to godliness. Friendliness is akin to kindness. Cleanliness and white walls is much like peace. I came here to be alone with strangers and to type. You catch my eye, bring me things, realign the curtains and give me two passes when I ask for just one. You’re younger than me, have dark eyes. At every other table, a woman holds her baby. The husbands wear black-rimmed glasses and have booming voices. You talk to them all. Here, I won’t ask for coffee because I’m too aware of my fertility levels. Redbush, peppermint, camomile.

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