__Quintessential__
By Blue Zen
I hate the way she looks at me when I'm ill. She just
stands there with her arms crossed, head on one side,
staring at the invalid.
I told her to go back to college but she's
standing her ground, fluffing pillows and such,
waiting for me to ask for some tea, I suspect. These
Americans and their strange perception of England.
Probably think all we do is have jam and scones,
drinking tea out on the camomile lawn, after a rousing
game of cricket and a trip to see the queen. It's not
as if they're being spiteful, they do genuinely
believe the nonsense prime time television purveys.
Buffy's one of the worst. Well, alright, it's more of a tie between Xander and her - but still, the way she's looking at me. Expectantly. Waiting
for those three magic words. 'more tea, please?'
What does she expect? A heartfelt chorus
of 'God Save the Queen' and a jolly little jig? She's
still looking at me, appraising my condition in that
strange way that women do. And, you know what's
worse? She won't listen to a thing I say. I get
little 'tsk, tsk' sounds when I tell her I'm fine and
more of the same when I try to reason with her about
going back to college.
I know what she's thinking. In that mind
of hers, there's a little voice saying, 'If only he
wasn't so damn English, so. so stiff-upper-lippish,
he'd admit he was sick. But no, he sits there like a
giant marinating chicken in that silly pinstriped
dressing gown, wishing for a cup of tea.'
I don't need tea. I don't know if I even
like tea. Tea's a non-entity to me - I've never
thought about it before. In fact, I could go as far
as to say, I disliked tea - hated it even.
Right, that's it. Next time someone asks
me if I want a cup of tea, I'll tell them exactly what
they can do with it. No more stereotypical
Englishman, no more pandering to the American
perception of all things English. I'm proud to hate
our national beverage. I spit at tea.
She's still looking at me, those puppy dog
eyes boring into my skull, and turning. Thank God,
she's leaving at last. but no, there she goes into the
kitchen. Now, she's saying something, mumbling as
usual.
"Sorry, Buffy, I didn't catch that," I
croak in her general direction.
"I said, 'Tea, Giles?'"
It comes out automatically. "Yes, please."
Damn.
* * *