Tea remained silent throughout his explanation, noting everything: his visible flinch, the hesitation and obvious discomfort, the earnestness in his face. It was either honesty or extremely adept lying, and Tea had no compunctions about finding out which. She leaned in closer and reached a hand across the table, until it touched his tea-cup. The man was one of her own worshipers, and she had no trouble at all sliding into his veins, singing along his body and through that monotheistic heart of his, pumping merrily along at a quick, nervous pace. Up and up and up to his head, where Tea could feel her own presence concentrated heavily with the hottest kind of burning, sharp-witted energy. Some day, the goddess would understand this as caffeine molecules stimulating the brain.
It was the easiest thing in the world to card steaming fingers through his mind, to skim under the surface to the currents of intent and feeling, all the while never breaking her intense stare. He was telling the truth. This big-little Christ-child would not hurt her if she did not provoke him. She leaned back, her fingers sliding off the man's tea mug; the spell was broken with an inaudible snap.
At his question, her lips pursed in mild bemusement. "Yes, and? It's who I am. This is my place- surely you know a center of worship when you step inside one."