The woman in the tea house

img_20161103_232741A mulher chegava todos os dias à casa de chá, sentava-se na poltrona do canto e já não pedia. Era de lúcia-lima o conforto a evaporar-se da chávena e a entrar-lhe na alma, sem os sobressaltos do verde, a promessa de um English Breakfast ou o atrevimento de um Oolong.

Sentava-se ali e esperava, todos os dias, pela pessoa que mais tinha gostado de conhecer. A mesma que lhe dissera, um dia – eu e tu só somos felizes nos efémeros.

Eu e tu… O efémero que lhe duraria uma eternidade; o efémero que desaguava do saco permeável para a água na vertigem da ebulição, que se oferecia indiscreto ao aroma desatento de quem passava, capaz de se lhe colar ao corpo e segui-lo só porque estava ali, assim como tu, vês?, que vais passando de mão em mão, de corpo em corpo, até um dia voltares a mim.

***

The woman would go to the Tea House everyday and sit in the corner armchair; she didn’t need to order. The comfort evaporating from the teacup and settling in her soul was lucia verbena, without the jolt of a green, the promise of an English Breakfast or the daring of an Oolong.

She would sit there and wait, every single day, for the one she had more joy in knowing. The one who had told her, one day – you and i are only happy in the fleeting.

You and I… The transient that would last her an eternity; the ephemeral flowing from the tea bag to the water on the boiling’s point verge, offering itself shamelessly to the indifferent senses of strangers, sticking to their bodies and following them, for they were passing by; just like you, see?,  going hand by hand, body by body, until you reach me again one day.

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