Reading Into It by Jordan Nishkian
Photo by Artem Mizyuk for Pexels
Layla wasn’t sure if it was the warm sliver of light cast on her kitchen table or how busy her mind had become with so little to do, but curiosity itched in her heart.
A still apartment, no plans, a vibrant imagination: her head had become a perfect storm for maladaptive daydreams. She had felt him with her all day, and she’d catch herself moving with more grace, making the simplest chore a dance to allure the figment of his body.
This was the part of new romance that Layla loved—the part when she felt like a dog chasing a car, when all she wanted was a short, intense burst of closeness. He stirred up the magic inside her.
She walked across the laminate floor to her cupboard, pushing herself onto the kitchen counter to reach the antique teacup her grandmother had given her. It was made from a thin, cream-colored ceramic, and the lip and the rim of the matching saucer were both lined in metallic gold paint. She blew into the cup to clear the light coat of dust and placed it next to her electric kettle.
She imagined him leaning on the counter next to her as she pulled out a tray of loose leaves, spices, and herbs, asking, “What kind are you making?”
“Something my grandma taught me,” Layla answered, thinking of the women that came to her grandmother’s tea room for readings. “The leaves are supposed to tell me our future.”
Picturing his skin’s warm undertone and the freckles that dashed the tops of his cheekbones, Layla spooned in rooibos tea leaves and a sprinkle of cacao nibs into a small, empty bowl. She thought of his hair as dried rose petals curled around her fingers. Stirring the ingredients together, her eyes scanned the rest of her tray.
“What are you looking for?”
“The secret is to add something that triggers a sense memory,” she said. Her hand grazed a jar of cinnamon bark.
“I add cinnamon to my coffee,” he suggested.
She unscrewed the lid and inhaled spice and fire. The colors of umber and October came to mind. Layla shook her head.
He approached her, tilting his jaw and exposing the place where his beard and bare neck met. “What do I smell like?”
The intangible warmth of his cologne rushed her senses: earthy, comforting, sweet. She nodded and selected a narrow bottle of vanilla bean pods. She removed one, sliced it down the center with a paring knife, then used the back of the blade to scrape up the seeds.
Layla mimicked the memory of her grandmother brewing the tea: stir the ingredients, place a teaspoon of the mixture into the cup, add the hot water, and let it steep. She took her cup and saucer to the kitchen table while she waited for it to cool.
“Now what?” he asked as she eased into the pocket of sunlight that had shifted from the table and onto her chair.
“I set intentions.” Layla stared into her cup, letting her mind wander as she watched clouds of crimson release into the water. She became saturated with thoughts of how his voice was scratchier in the mornings, how he loved color but mostly wore neutrals, how she barely knew the intricate patterns of his eyes because she was too nervous to look.
Her gaze followed the pillars of steam, glistening as they caught the afternoon sun. Through the humid veil, she conjured his shape sitting in the chair across from her.
“What do you know about me?” his voice played in her mind.
“You have a wall up,” Layla responded, trying to hone in on the blurred lines of his face. The more she tried to piece his features together, the more askew they became. She locked her view on his lips—she could envision what they looked like when he used a word that didn’t make sense, or when she was the reason they curled into a smile. “You’re self-reliant, open-minded. You’re kinder than you think you are.”
He looked out her window and she took in the angles of his profile.
“What do you know about me?” she returned the question.
He surveyed her, piercing the curtain of vapor. After she couldn’t hold any more breath, he smiled. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” he told her. She exhaled.
Once the steam faded, she lifted the cup to her lips and drank her tea, trying to keep the leaves from rushing into her mouth. The drink was floral and gentle, and even though heat trickled down her throat, her skin pricked with chills at the thought of his hands on her shoulders.
Indulging in long sips, Layla rested her back into the chair and felt sunlight skim her lashes. She rewatched her favorite memory of him play out beside her: the time they were talking and the sun shone in her face. Instead of flinching, she let her brown eyes absorb the light, letting them turn the deep color of clay. It was subtle and fleeting, but his gaze lingered and his shoulders eased—and she thought, maybe, he’d like to remember this too.
She sat back up when there was half a sip left and began to swirl the contents of her cup, closing her eyes and asking her question, the way her grandmother taught her. Ready, she turned her focus to the teacup’s well and studied the patterns of the wet, scattered leaves.
Jordan Nishkian
Jordan Nishkian is an Armenian-Portuguese writer based in California. Her prose and poetry explore themes of duality and have been featured in national and international publications. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Mythos literary magazine and published her first novella, Kindred, in 2021.