Tea
I hadn't seen you in years when I booked a flight to visit you in Buenos Aires. You lived somewhere cool and far away and I was hungry for a trip. You didn't know anything about me, so you asked my mom what I liked. She said, Tea, not coffee. So when I arrived, you took me to a tea shop. I marveled at all the loose leaf in glass jars on the shelves. I bought a yellow tea tin with a cat on it. You had cats the last time we saw each other in Chicago. I was a kid but I felt like a woman when we walked around the city at night. I met your partner. I don't think anyone ever explained to me that you were gay. 15 years later, in Buenos Aires, we drank strong cocktails before dinner. You asked me about my mom and shared vague snippets of your childhood. They were never positive memories. One thing my mom forgot to tell you, I like women, not men. I was assured of this in college when my friend Elizabeth brewed tea for me and we watched...