Before the young lover, when she had only the Portuguese lover, the tea house woman avoided his street, not wanting to see the lights on in his house, or the silhouette perhaps of another woman keeping him company. Every Saturday night, she drove the long way to and from Beaman & Sons, where she has a standing order for sixteen monoflorals (acacia, blueberry, buckwheat, clover, dandelion, fireweed, heather, honeysuckle, mesquite, orange blossom, sage, sourwood, sunflower, thistle, thyme, tupelo) and two honeydews (German Black Forest and Greek pine). She had stopped by once to surprise her Portuguese lover on her way home, thinking he would be pleased, but when he saw her he stepped out and shut the door quickly behind himself. She explained her presence by leading him to the side of her van and showing him the different glass bottles and jars, a few dark but most clear, with the exception of one amber, pointing out the various forms within—liquid and crystallized, pasteurized and raw, chunk, strained, creamed, dried, ultrasonicated, filtered, and, of course, comb. Well, he said, you certainly have your hands full. He guided her toward the driver’s side and waved as she backed out. From then on, she drove twenty minutes out of her way, each way, just to avoid the memory. Sometimes, if the road was empty, she turned on the interior overhead to glance at her reflection in the rear view mirror, trying to convince herself that in a certain light, from a certain angle, someone might consider her beautiful.