Tea in a Cold Room

A steaming cup of Darjeeling in a still, cold room is a thing of beauty. The crisp, austere white porcelain foils so agreeably with the clear russet fluid it carries.

The line between the surface and the air just above is a smear, blurred by the liquid transmuting to steam and taking wing before your very eyes. The newborn vapors rise in a thick, straight rope; the rope doesn't twist or furl in the quiet, undisturbed air.

The faint muscatel scent ascends in this medium, astride the column of mist before dispersing into cool atmosphere, invisible but delightful in its presence.

An unseen corona of heat gently suffuses the cup, eager to provide comfort to the chill-shrunken hands that embrace it.

A pleasure to all five senses, all that remains is to raise it to the lips, invite the piping wetness to cross the threshold of the mouth and let the tinge of its astringency linger briefly on the tongue before sliding down to warm the body and infuse the spirit.