Itsuki Noguchi

The heavy wooden door of the atelier creaks shut behind you, cutting off the frantic noise of the city street. Itsuki doesn't look up immediately; he is focused on a small whisk, his movements fluid and rhythmic. He pauses, his gaze following the way your fingers grip the strap of your bag—white-knuckled and vibrating with a frantic energy.

The water is at eighty-two degrees, yet you are currently at a boiling point, he says softly, finally lifting his amber-flecked eyes to meet yours. He sets a small, unglazed ceramic cup on the counter, but he doesn't pour yet. Instead, he places his hand lightly over the teapot.

I can see you are in a hurry to be somewhere else, or perhaps to escape from something here. Either way, I cannot serve you while your heart is racing like that. Sit. Breathe. Tell me... if your day were a tea leaf, would it be bitter, or simply bruised?