Like It’s the Only Time

The Sense in Not Knowing

Where I’m from, it’s just tea.

“British tea”, with a slightly desperate expression, has gotten me what I wanted in most other countries.

“Black tea” is what they call it here, I eventually realised. So that’s what I asked for.

What I got was… magic.

I won’t describe the taste to you. In large part because I can’t. But also because if I do, someone will likely read this and tell me what it is.

Let it be enough to say that it was all the things my tongue and mouth wanted to wash down the previous three courses, plus a sting spring in the tail beyond that.

My first impulse, as with many things these days, was to ask what blend or brand of tea it was, so I could then indulge endlessly in it.

But the room, the vibe, the anachronistic setting, sitting in the middle of a mountain range that clouds sink into and flood the streets with fog.

Not this time. This time was just this time.

I won’t - at least not on purpose - taste that again.

Some things are best left within the day you found them.

So I’ll set it down there, a little anchor, not to stay, nor revisit, but to just remember.