[ grace, hong lu thinks. that's the word to define it. each of her motions bleed into one another, much in the way of a ceremonial dance. now, hong lu wonders if she's also a dancer of some sort. how else would you come to have this sort of grace? he wonders if she'll teach him, if he holds still long enough.

still, hong lu receives the tea gratefully. ]

Thank you. [ hong lu says, as happy as any schoolchild to receive it. his own mannerism are had with absent precision: the turn of the cup so that the patterned lip of it faces out, the ninety-degree right angle of his elbow, just the touch of his pinky along the contours of the cup before it lifts. hong lu knows how to drink tea. he has been trained, after all. ] Hmm...

[ hong lu sips. the tea is a little stronger than he'd have liked. it's quite cheap, he thinks. ] If what one wears on their tongue ends up in the flavor of the tea, would you call it a kiss?