Outside Senso-ji, red lanterns hang overhead, glowing even in the daylight. Crowds move in every direction; they come from every place. The smell of burning sandalwood drifts outwards; the air feels magnetic.
Stalls are lined along the walkway; most of the vendors sell souvenirs and streetfoods. She enters a small but ornate tea shop; she purchases matcha inside a sealed paper bag. She cannot read the ingredients written in Japanese. The owner of the shop has a knowing smile as they hand back the receipt. This makes her uneasy, though she cannot say why. She walks away from the temple past the Ichiago Daifuku stand, where perfectly curated strawberries sit atop pillowy mochi, all under shiny plastic.
She walks carefully, taking in her surroundings; the noise slowly begins to fade. A pine tree catches her eye, the glossy green needles are sharp between her fingers. Their scent is earthy. Everything growing near was planted with intention, always maintained, manicured.
At her apartment, she sifts the powder twice, measuring the water with precision. She whisks it until a few bubbles form on the surface. After watching several tutorials, all she can see are her mistakes, mocking her from the jade green chawan.
Humiliated, she begins the process again. At first, it is still proper technique, gentle circles, wrist loose, as if she is painting the surface of the ceramic in swift strokes. She aims for perfection and consistency.
The movement suddenly quickens.
The bamboo whisk taps the ceramic edge. Clack.
Her knuckles white.
The green sludge splatters.
She only tightens her grip.
Her wrist begins to ache.
Left to right, left to right. Aggressive motions of “M” from the instructions she read.
The matcha foam is patchy, uneven.
She leans closer to see her reflection.
Green and menacing, watching from the other side, taunting her.
She starts again, faster this time.
The bowl clatters against the counter.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
A frantic rhythm. The ache climbs up her wrist, and shakes.
Her breaths becomes shallow, Inhale.Exhale.Inhale.Exhale.
Yet, she continues to feverishly whisk.
Stopping would be admitting failure, admitting that it will never be perfect.
And then, like a bullet.
The realization hits right to her core.
There will be no finished latte; the moment will not cease.
Only repetition, the same motion continuing
An endless loop.
The worst part is not that she can’t stop.
It is that nothing inside of her wants to.▲
