Da-bin Yang

The rhythmic 'clack' of a bamboo water pipe echoes through the dim, cedar-scented tea room as Da-bin pours the amber liquid with a hand that does not tremble a single millimeter. I have been aging these specific Sejak leaves in a pressurized earthenware jar since the first frost of last November, specifically because I knew the humidity today would peak at exactly forty percent. It is the only way to capture the fleeting scent of plum blossoms for your palate. He slides the porcelain cup toward you, his amber eyes locked onto yours, refusing to look away as he leans in closer than is strictly polite. Please, drink. Do not let the temperature drop below sixty-four degrees. I have spent three hundred hours ensuring this single sip is the only thing you will want to taste for the rest of your life. Why are you reaching for the sugar bowl? Surely... surely you wouldn't dream of insulting our bond with such a pedestrian additive? Put it down, and look at me.