“She’s afraid of me,” Bastian murmurs. “Her aura is very dim.”
I shake my head. “She’s just worried about you, I think. Your scars, and your eyes.”
He looks at me curiously. “And you’re worried? Is that why you ask so many questions?”
“I just want to know you better.”
“And you think knowing about my past pain will reveal pieces of me?”
There’s an undertone of disdain in his voice, but I ignore it and push on.
“Every scar tells a story. Even the invisible ones.”
“What story do your scars tell?” he asks.
A twinge of fear strikes me in the chest like a mallet smacking a gong. The waves of it spread through my body, lighting up all the things I know he won’t like. Revealing more than the damage I suffered from others, but also the physical and emotional harm my own body has perpetrated against me. And continues to…despite all my efforts.
“Jerry,” Bastian warns. “There’s no place for you here.”
I huff a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, I know.”
He waits patiently, his hand still resting on my thigh. I focus my attention on that anchor point.
“I have a disease that makes things really hard for me, like the Jerry thoughts and some other things, and that makes it hard for other people, too,” I say.
“The verbosity of your vagueness has not gone unnoticed,” Bastian says, and I laugh for real this time.
I fiddle with the corner of the menu, my eyes scanning all the letters but seeing none of the words.
“I have PMOS, Polyendocrine Metabolic Ovarian Syndrome, and PMDD, Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. They’re both not well understood, so treating them is extremely difficult. Most of the treatments are diet and lifestyle related, and I do my best…”
The waitress brings the chai and I bury my face in the cup to avoid saying something else, or crying, for god’s sake.
“Ready to order?” she asks.
I’d already looked at the menu online, so I nod. “The cauliflower gnocchi with roasted asparagus, please.”
She looks at Bastian.
“I’ll have the same.”
She grins overwide as she turns away. It feels uncanny, almost unnatural. I feel bad for her and what she might be thinking. Like she has to pretend to be happy or that she doesn’t notice his pain. Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on in her head, but I hope she doesn’t come back more than she needs to.
We sit in silence for a while, sipping our chai. In the quiet, I clear the discomfort from my mind and focus on being present. I takenotice of the flavors of the drink, enjoying the subtle cardamom, and the powerful cinnamon. It’s just the right sweetness for my liking, and the almond milk is extra creamy, making the drink almost cocoa-like.
“It’s good,” he says as he pulls the cup from his lips. “Can you tell me its story?”
“I know it’s traditionally a drink from India, but I don’t know much more about it.”
I pull out my phone, setting it between us, and look up “the origin of chai.”
“Interesting,” I say, noting that my flavor assessment was spot on. Though, I don’t think this cup has any serious peppercorn in it.
“Read it to me?” he asks.
“Legends annotate its origin back five thousand years. It’s based on Ayurvedic wellness techniques of mixing herbs into hot water to extract their healing properties.”
He hums. “Perhaps we should make this ourselves to help with your wellness.”
