Thursday, 19 June 2008 00:00

There are seven little china dolls lined up on the counter near the window.

I count them again, while I wait, nervously fluttering fingers over my suitcase buckle, my belt buckle, my shoelace and back again. I am still not sure how I found myself here. I am still not sure what I will find here.

Dirty curtains hang across the doorframe to my left. I think they were once paisley printed, in turquoise or orange. Color, obviously is faded to brown, a murky colorless shade that indicates an era without warmth. The rest of the place isn’t that dingy. I wonder at the curtains significance. Why leave something that looks like crap up for so long?

When she comes through the curtains I am taken aback. Not what I expected at all. She is young, mid-thirties maybe, with long dark hair held back from her face with two small clips, the type with butterflies balanced on the end that are usually reserved for children eight and under. Her black dress was simple, not sexy. Her lips were red.

“You’re here to see about Nyanna?” She asks me with her head cocked to the right. A slight accent, maybe just deep south coming through after years of good northern coverage, draws me in. Her lips are red. They form each word slowly and perfectly.

Yes.” I snap up, to attention. My eyes sweep past the china dolls, all seven, the curtains, my luggage, my belt, my shoes. My eyes sweep up to her eyes. I am shocked at the familiarity. I know I’ve gazed into these eyes before. “This it the address I was given.” I hold the scrap of paper with the handwritten address out in front of me, flimsily.

“Okay.” She turns, and disappears back into the space behind the curtain.

I stand awkwardly shifting my weight from one foot to another.

“Follow me,” she yells from the space I cannot see. I picture her red lips forming each word, slowly, with a hint of south.

I pick my hat off the counter, smile and nod at seven china dolls, and follow.

Through the curtain, in the back of the shop, it looks like home. A dining room table, four chairs arranged around it, is dated but beautiful. A handmade doily graces its center, a bowl of fruit, fresh from the farmers market most likely, centers that. I want to sit down. I want to eat the apples. I want the beautiful girl with the red lips to make me tea.

I stand.

“Nyanna isn’t here.” She offers an explanation at the stillness. To me. “Most days she takes off early in the morning and won’t return til almost dinnertime. I seldom know where she goes though I figure if she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. Mostly she only tells a person what they need to know at any given time.” She laughs. Like a silvery little twinkle against the timelessness of the room. I think I’m in love.

I pry my eyes off her red lips, swallow and compose myself. “Hey, so, what’s your name? And, wait, why haven’t you asked who I am?” All of the sudden the situation feels even more awkward. I would have been better off playing it out as the mostly silent guy who shuffles his shoes back and forth. Women love that, I’m sure.

“I’m sorry.” She moves her hand over her mouth. “I’m Jenna. And I don’t need to know who you are. Nyanna will.”

She moves to the 1960’s buttercream colored stove and pours the tea. “Sit,” she offers.

I sit.