She was standing in the doorway, no longer in her gardening clothes, but in cartoon-patterned cotton pajamas. I stood still. She certainly didn’t imagine I’d already be inside.
“Oh,” she whispered, quickly adjusting a light robe. “I forgot you were already in.”
“It’s okay,” I stammered. “The pajamas… are pretty.”
She laughed. A genuine laugh, without flirtation, simply human.
At that moment, she ceased to be the mysterious woman of the neighborhood. She was just a woman who had experienced loss and who lived in a house far too large for one person.
“Do you want tea?” he asked.
-Yes, thanks.
We sat at a small wooden table by the window overlooking the lemon tree in the courtyard. She prepared mint tea with lemon; the aroma filled the kitchen.
“I bought it in San Miguel de Allende,” he said. “The vendor swore it cures loneliness. I don’t know if I believe that… but sometimes you need to believe in something.”
I took a sip. Citrusy flavor, slightly bitter at the end. But what was memorable wasn’t the tea, but the shared silence, without pressure or discomfort.
