Invitation to Tea by Lyle Dagnen The clock ticking away kept his mind on the fact that she was not late. He'd asked her to come to tea at four o'clock and it was not yet four. It was four minutes until four and she made it a point never to be early, not even by a minute. She was doing this to drive him crazy. She was good at that. He was her “literal Louie”; it bugged him—his name wasn't Louie but she had a fondness for literary images and the alliteration pleased her and aggravated his sense of the literal. The whistle of the copper kettle snagged his attention and he went to make the tea. Darjeeling—she liked Darjeeling tea and that is what he would brew today. Setting the quilted cozy over the tea pot he returned to his position by the window. He wanted to watch her approach his front door. It was raining, and he wanted to see what she would do. With irritating precision he saw her car turn into his driveway. The Gods must have been laughing at him, because the rain storm turned to a tempest of thunder, lightning, and driving rain that coincided with her turning off her car. Without missing a beat, she got out and walked to his door. She didn't run or put up a hand or even dare to use an umbrella. Oh, heaven forbid she use an umbrella. No, she strolled and turned her face to the torrent of water falling on her. She reveled in it, like she drew some kind of mystic strength from the booming thunder and lightning. He would never understand her, but she was a puzzle he longed to solve if it took him the rest of his life. He loved her as he had never loved any other person in his life.
He had prepared for her arrival. He had fluffy towels waiting by the door. He had a fire in the fireplace ... he even had a change of clothes for her. Her presence in his home was a comfortable thing; he wanted her there on a permanent basis, but she resisted. She told him she would drive his ordered existence crazy, so she had her house. He wanted her to drive his ordered existence crazy. She was the reason he finally understood what John Keats meant when he wrote: “I cannot exist without you – I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again – my life seems to stop there – I see no further . You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation of the present moment as though I were dissolving...I have been astonished that men could be Martyrs for religion – I have shuddered at it – I shudder no more – I could be martyr'd for my Religion – Love is my religion – I could die for you. My creed is Love and you are its only tenet You have ravish'd me away by a Power I cannot resist.” With her knock on his door, she was there, like the faeries among the lilies in his garden, she was a ball of light that he believed in. He wrapped her in a towel, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her rain-soaked lips. He could taste the rain and the cold; he could taste her as he held her close, soaking the water into the towel he had wrapped around her. “Let me help you get out of these wet things so that you can warm up.” She giggled as he blotted the cold dripping water from her waist-length hair. Then, piece at a time he removed her clothes; he relished the time he gave to dry her skin, to enjoy the feel under his fingers, to watch her wiggle as he touched the places that made her giggle and laugh. He helped her don the sweat suit that was hers,
