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Avery lets me settle in. They silently return to whatever they were working on before I arrived, and I dig my laptop and some books out of my bag. Once I’m all set up, Avery slides a paper cup from the dining hall toward me.
“I snuck some jasmine tea out of the dining hall,” Avery says. They have an identical cup in front of them. “Hopefully it’s still hot. I had to sneak it in, but I doubt anyone is going to come all the way up here to tell us not to drink it.”
“The dining hall has jasmine tea?”
“No, definitely not. I brought the tea bags from home and used the dining hall for hot water so I could brew it fresh.”
I pop the plastic lid off. Steam curls off the pale golden liquid, fragrant with jasmine blossoms. I breathe deeply, inhaling the memory of that first night when I met Avery. Oh, how naive I was, thinking they were just a nice, attractive stranger I’d never see again.
“This is what you made me after my car broke down,” I say.
Avery’s smile widens, and my heart dances at the joy in their face. “You remember that tea?”
“Of course. It was great. And it was really kind of youto make it for a complete stranger.”
“Maybe I already had a good feeling about you.”
I hide my smile by sipping on the tea. It’s definitely cooled a bit, but it’s worlds better than any of the tea you’d get in the dining hall itself. I drink slowly, inhaling every time I take a sip in order to appreciate the distinctive aroma that flavors the drink.
“That’s really good tea,” I say.
“It’s my favorite,” Avery says. “I always make it when I’m working at the café.”
“Your café sounds like a strange place. I can’t believe that’s a real thing.”
“It is strange, but it’s also special. We fought hard to keep it going. The school even wanted to shut us down at one point,” Avery says. “I wish you could come see it.” They rush on before I can mention what a dangerous idea that would be. “I know. You can’t. I get it. I’m just saying that I wish you could. We dress up and decorate. It’s a whole atmosphere, not just a cup of tea. That’s why people keep coming back.”
“It sounds lovely. Maybe…” I catch myself, but Avery’s face shines with hope, and I can’t stop myself from wanting to nurture that light. “Maybe we could get tea someday. Not in paper cups.”
“I’d really like that,” Avery says. “someday.”
The “when” goes unspoken. It’s a future so fragile that neither of us want to say it out loud and potentially shatterit. When I’m not Avery’s TA. When there’s no risk. When we can be more open about this. When I know if I’m staying in Montridge or fleeing back home. When, when, when. All of these whens that are even less substantial than the steam curling off my tea. At least I can smell and taste that. These whens are completely ethereal, a hope lingering on a held breath.
“What are you working on?” Avery says, nodding at my books and laptop.
“Just papers for classes,” I say.
“What kinds of papers?”
“I’m sure it would be dull.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t. Aren’t you the one who’s always saying how we’re in the same field?”
I concede, and start explaining a paper for a class about sexuality and global language conventions. Different cultures and languages come with different traditions and norms around these things, and that’s certainly carried into the modern day.
Avery seems fascinated by all of it. I feel like I’m giving a lecture for their class rather than describing what’s happening in mine as I go on and on about how different languages deal with things like pronouns.
“I always wondered how I’d talk about myself in other languages,” Avery says.
“It’s complicated. There’s no one answer. Different communities in different places have their ownconventions, their own ‘rules,’ so to speak. A lot of times, they have to make it up themselves.”
“Just like us,” Avery says. “We’re all just figuring it out as we go, aren’t we? There’s no one simple answer, but that’s kind of the beauty of it. Our languages and cultures are changing as we assert our right to be here and to be part of society.”
“I didn’t think about it that way,” I admit. “It sounds like it would be very difficult. I can’t imagine what I’d do if English didn’t have a ‘he.’”
“It is difficult,” Avery says, “but it’s also rewarding and beautiful. These kinds of communities are like their own little micro cultures. It’s amazing, don’t you think?”
Micro cultures. Like the micro culture around Montridge, this town full of university students that has drag bars and gay bars and Boyfriend Cafés. It’s strange, sometimes overwhelming, different from everything I know. But Avery is right. It’s also kind of amazing.
