The Room Started Out Blue

The room had been blue the first time.

Not just blue in the way of paint or fabric, but blue in temperament. The air decided to withdraw into itself. Maybe it held its breath. Or it was just listening, assessing. The lamps were patience, like old sentries. I remember thinking the chandelier seemed lower than it ought to be, until I looked at it directly.

The tea was always poured, at the temperature I preferred.

No host’s touch could be discerned. It was just a porcelain pot with roses climbing its sides, a cup positioned precisely where my hand would fall if I admitted to being expected.

I had not made a reservation this time.