Who: Athena and Psyche. What: It's tradition! When: Four o'clock in the afternoon, Tuesday. Where: The Windsor Rose, a tea room. Warnings: None.
Psyche’s gaze alternated between the window to her right (which was appealingly bright – it was sunny, even if it was still wintry) and the teacup in front of her (which was appealingly dark – black tea with Mandarin orange and vanilla). The tea room was small enough to feel private, even in a blaringly public city like New York, but elegant enough to remind her of the rooms in London she had taken tea in more than a century ago. (She had been fond of the Victorians; most everyone had been gracious and demure, despite the seemingly limitless power of the British Empire.)
And then one of her favorite people walked in the tea room, and her attention was diverted. She smiled, her eyes lighting up. It was their longtime tradition to meet over a cup of tea and discuss whatever happened to be on their minds at the moment. Of course, the tea rooms they had picked had changed over the years, but the tradition lost none of its charm. Nor was the tradition dampened by the fact that they had had, unfortunately, particularly worrisome conversations as of late.
Psyche had frequently thought to herself that this is what it must be like to have an older sister – this familiarity, this sense of honesty and amiability. It was wonderful; a small miracle, really.
“Hello!” she called cheerfully, waving as Athena drew closer.