Flower tea

A few drops of rain fell like light dust, splashing tiny water spots on the glass window. She looked up at the night sky. At this moment, if she just walked through that door, she knew she would be lonely enough to cry. The clock on the wall ticked slowly, the ticking sound was also sad, she couldn't remember since when she loved its sadness like he once said he loved the sadness on her face.

It had been more than three years since the first day she picked him up at the airport with a bouquet of aster in her hand, the flower she loved for its soft and graceful beauty, symbolizing unforgettable depths. He appeared, from afar his tall and thin figure and his face with weathered features made her freeze for a few seconds. Her inherent pride had disappeared. She became confused and clumsy in front of him. At first, she thought she picked him up to interview him, a man far from home who loved his homeland's literature. She flusteredly handed him the pale purple flowers with a shy smile. He also froze for a second in front of her. She was more graceful than he had imagined, a moment of surprise passed, but very quickly, he filled it with a warm smile and a warm handshake...

In the following days, he canceled all his plans, even his trips away, to spend time with her. They fell in love. Unexpectedly and passionately.

That summer was warm and rainy, when poppies were blooming in the meadows, she set off, flying to the land known as the home of the most beautiful castles in the world, where he was.

Every morning before they left the house, he made her a pot of chrysanthemum tea. He boiled water, a round yellow pot like a pumpkin. On the white-painted dining table, he laid out two plates, one for her and one for him, along with cheese, sausage, chicken or something she liked, then gently shook his head helplessly when she was a picky eater, even though she still praised it as delicious. Every now and then she would look at him, the man who had suddenly appeared in her life. The scent of chrysanthemum in the teapot wafted, soaking them both in endless, lingering love.

He took her through vast grasslands, the poppies were bright red all over the area. He gently told her to stop and then raised his camera to capture her beautiful moments. Perhaps love was the wine that made her eyes as vast as waves. They wandered through the grasslands, along the riverbank. Then returning home, he went into the kitchen to cook simple dishes for her. He gently took care of her like he would a sick cat. She was ecstatic with happiness and suddenly quieted down when she saw her man struggling in the small house. There was a bit of sadness in the corner of her eyes when she thought of the days of separation.

On the day of return, he took her to the airport, busy and worried. Beside him, she was like a young girl, absent-minded and dependent. He told her to go this way, then follow the others so she wouldn't get lost. She smiled even though her heart was soaked with tears because she was about to leave him. She went inside, hidden behind the waiting room, and looked back to see him standing there watching her, his tall and thin figure and worried face. That image had followed her for many years, the bitterness, separation, and common anger also shattered every time she remembered his figure at the airport that day. She loved him, with all the bitterness of the past years combined, like someone tossed about in a storm at sea, suddenly one day a naive wave washed her onto the gentle sand.

She returned to her familiar room and resumed her normal life. In this apartment complex, few people heard her voice. In their eyes, she was beautiful and mysterious.

As promised, that spring he returned to her, in the small, pretty apartment there was always a light scent of perfume, which she often thought was the scent of perfume in Pauxtopxki's "Rainy Dawn", the scent of a lonely woman. Every morning he made her cups of tea with the scent of chrysanthemums. They loved each other, passionately every day. On the balcony, she leaned on him, at the moment of New Year's Eve, lit up by the splendid fireworks. She felt herself flying like the fireworks and she was happy.

***

The night deepened, the stars in the sky seemed to have lost their way, some distant stars stood twinkling, alone. It was like her. She suddenly shivered, quickly leaving the balcony. The sound of the piano next door echoed the familiar melody “Then tomorrow morning there will be no trace left. A bank of alluvium forgotten to step over. Only the rain lingers in the eyes…” She hugged her pillow and looked out at the night sky, tears suddenly welled up. The repression, the longing, the sorrowful resentments all came together, drowning her in endless waves.

On this sofa he still sat every day, watching her arrange flowers and walk around the house happily like a little princess, feeling as if his warmth was still lingering somewhere. She remembered one afternoon after work, she was surprised because the room seemed to be more spacious, everything was arranged, rearranged, neat and reasonable. She stood still, looking into his eyes with tears, seeing in them his love for her, sincere and trustworthy. She went to the bed, the shirt under the pillow fell out, it was the shirt he had left for her to keep that day. The wind came through the crack again, making the glass window shake violently. She turned to lie on her side, burying her face in her own tangled hair, feeling the numbness gently touching her slightly trembling shoulders. Was she foolish? Waiting for a man far away, waiting for someone who knew if he would ever come back?

Geographical distance and countless reasons of life sometimes pull him away from her, away from the orbit of love that she has worked so hard to cultivate. She is quieter. In the small apartment every afternoon when she returns, she reads books, arranges flowers and... waits. Her man still sends her sweet things and everyday stories every day, plans, wishes and hopes, because the love of adults must face changes, with epidemics, recessions... stretching people in different directions. She receives the flowers and leaves in his country with love, with repression and tolerance as she always does... with everything she still gives him, late but complete.

The scent of chrysanthemum tea was still strong. That pure scent seemed to only pass by, but it had nurtured her love over the years. In times of uncertainty, she would take out the photos of herself on the roads with him to admire in the scent of tea, leaning on them like the shade of a tree protecting her through the storm. Many nights in her sleep, she would see in the distance his lonely figure in the small house, his hair already streaked with frost. The white painted table she and he still sat on every morning, in her dreams, was covered with fallen leaves. The house was quiet and still, as if he had just gone somewhere, to a very far away place... On nights like that, she would wake up with a start and look out at the night sky.

She looked up at the clock ticking slowly on the wall, he had probably just come home from work and was in the kitchen cooking lunch. He was used to living alone, taking care of himself. She went out to the balcony, by the window, a leaf accidentally fell down, swaying and gently landing next to her feet. She could even hear the sound of it falling, so soft. The street was late at night, the shadows of people walking on the street were sparse, the nostalgia echoed back. The cold of the afternoon and the silence of the night seemed deeper.

She went to the wide open window and gently closed it. Late at night, the air was cool, the stars were still wandering around above. Returning, she went to the bed and turned off the light. Darkness covered the room, the sound of the piano from inside the house echoed through the night, filled with longing. Somewhere in the distance, there was a faint scent of chrysanthemum tea. Missing him, she buried her face in the pillow. She knew that her love would remain forever, even though the longing and waiting were real.

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/tra-hoa-a185361.html