Russian Tea

It started soft and then developed into a high-pitched scream. The kettle was ready.

I poured the boiling water over black tea bags in the pitcher, watching the inky beverage steep. The autumnal scent of sugar, cloves, and cinnamon wafted from the other burner, signaling it was time to strain the spices out and add the orange and lemon juices in. 

Once the juices were combined, I poured the contents of the saucepan into the pitcher with the tea.

“Just like grandma’s.” 

Discarding the tea bags, I poured myself a mug and settled into the armchair in the corner of my one-room apartment. My feet tucked beneath me. My hands warmed around the mug.

The armchair sat alone in my living space. An unplugged television rested on the floor against one wall, and a college-era floor lamp — the kind with bendable arms — slouched to my right. The murphy bed rested in its cabinet, giving the studio some breathing room when I wasn’t sleeping. 

My apartment in the city, something I’d wanted for so long, couldn’t look more different than the ones from my favorite sitcoms. Even if I had a couch, my friends wouldn’t be sitting on it. They were more than six hours away. My family — almost twelve.

It had been months since I spent time with my friends in person. Of course, we talked on the phone regularly, but that wasn’t the same as sitting across the table from them and looking them in the eyes. And I haven’t been completely honest in those phone calls. The glamorous, exciting, purposeful life I’d been promised in college hadn’t been delivered. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed my college roommate, Sarah. No answer. So I tried my friend Jess. And Laura. And Marie. Even my mom didn’t answer. 

My nose prickled, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes. The lump in my throat prevented me from drinking my tea. 

A door in the hallway slammed shut, ripping me out of my pity party. She’s home. Every evening, my neighbor gets home around 7 p.m. and lets her front door fall shut behind her. The slam.

I took the two steps to my kitchen, filled a jar with the steaming drink, and screwed a lid on it. Before I could stop myself, I stepped into the hallway.

I stood there for a minute, staring at her door. The jar was too hot for my bare hands, so I tucked it under my sweatshirted arm like a football and knocked. Silence. 

It didn’t sound like anyone was coming to the door, but I waited, hoping the door slam had been a signal of going rather than returning. But after almost a full minute, footsteps crept into earshot and the door inched open. 

“Hello?” She cracked the door just enough for one dark eye to see into the hallway.

“Hi!” I said a bit too enthusiastically. “I’m your new neighbor. I just made some Russian tea and thought you might like some.” 

She opened the door a little more, revealing her petite frame, and eyed the jar tucked into my body. “What’s Russian tea?”

“Oh, it’s black tea with some spices and orange juice and lemon juice.” I held it out to her, realized how hot it still was, and pulled it back into the crook of my arm. “My grandma used to make it for me when I was a kid, and I made too much for just me and thought you might like some.” 

I rocked back and forth on my heels while waiting for her to respond to my proposition. She thought about it for a minute and then opened the door the rest of the way before inviting me in. 

I followed her into the apartment.

The entryway opened into a modest-sized living room decorated with two rolled-arm couches. She must have a lot of friends.

She hung a right into the kitchen and pointed to the counter next to the sink. I set the jar on the counter and turned to leave. Even though she invited me inside, I’m out of place. 

“What’s your name?” She opened an upper cabinet and pulled out two china cups. I guess I’m going to stay for a little while. 

“Grace,” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants. “Yours?”

“Dorothy,” she poured the drink into both cups and handed me the blue and white one. Hers had roses. “Nice to meet you, Grace. Sorry I haven’t stopped by to introduce myself yet.” 

“Oh, that’s okay,” I slurped from the cup. “I’ve been really busy with work and getting settled in.”

“I remember being young in the city,” Dorothy took a sip. “Delicious. Where you from, dear?”

“How did you know I’m not from here?” I asked as if my University of Virginia sweatshirt wasn’t a dead giveaway.

“You wouldn’ta knocked on my door if you were.”

My face heated up. Had I broken some kind of unspoken code? Should my relationships with my neighbors be restricted to small talk in the elevator? “But you just apologized for not knocking on mine!”

Dorothy smiled, her dark eyes crinkling. “Yes, I did. I’m not from here either.”

“Where are you from? I grew up in Georgia, but I just finished graduate school and am here for a job. It’s been great so far, and I’m really liking the city and my work,” I rambled, not sharing anything of substance. 

Dorothy just swilled her tea and listened. When I finally stopped for a breath, she slipped in. “Let’s go sit on the couch, and you can tell me how your first few months here have really been.”

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First published in Jimson Weed, Volume XLII, New Series Vol. 26, Number 1, Spring 2023