“I can clean that up for you,” I said to the pair of older men, who had managed to knock two gaiwans off their table. Shards of white porcelain and long green leaves of oolong lay in a forlorn puddle of wasted tea on the floor.
One of the men nodded at me but didn’t make eye contact. I swept up as best I could and knelt down to get it all into the dustpan, but as I did, I heard something.
A terrible something.
A ripping sound.
I scooped up the last few pieces of gaiwan and sopped up as much as I could with the towels, but there was so much.
“I’ll be back with a mop. Sorry.”
“Could we get some more of your Da Hong Pao?”
“Um. Sure.”
I tugged my shirt down behind me with one hand and hurried into the back.
Something terrible had happened to my pants.
I hid behind the door and felt my pockets to find the problem.
The edge of the box knife I’d been using was still stickingout, just enough to poke a hole into my jeans. A hole that had stretched and expanded, bit by bit, every time I bent over or squatted, until my jeans had finally experienced a non-passive failure.
I glanced toward the door and then reached my hand inside my pants just to make sure nothing felt bloody.
What was I going to do?
I heard a commotion outside, in the store, so I grabbed a roll of packing tape off the shelf, ripped off a couple pieces, and patched my pants together as best I could.
I hoped no one would notice.
I grabbed the mop and more towels and went back out.
“There you are,” Landon snapped when I emerged, waddling slightly so I wouldn’t make the rip worse. “What took you so long?”
“Uh.”
Landon’s cheeks were red, and his brows were creased.
“Someone almost tripped over your spill!” Landon’s voice was sharp as a box knife. Everyone turned to look at us: Kerry at the register, and Alexis at the tea bar, and the customers in line.
I’d never heard Landon use that voice before.
I felt like I’d been kneed in the balls again.
My eyes prickled as I mopped up the rest of the tea. I wiped my face against my shoulder and sniffed.
I had to get back on my hands and knees to get the last of it up, an operation that was destined to further damage the structural integrity of my jeans. The packing tape tugged on my leg hairs, and when I stood back up, I felt cool air against my inner thigh.
Great.
“Sorry about that,” I said to the table above me. I cleared my throat and squeezed my legs together to hide the damage to my jeans. They were already sipping on new cups of Big Red Robe.
“It’s fine,” they said without even looking at me.
I nodded at the floor.
“Enjoy your tea.”
