We drank weak rose petal flavored tea from water we boiled on the electric stove. The tea must have been a dollar (100 lek) for a box of twenty bags. It was terrible tea.
On bad days, the city had rolling blackouts. We hypothesized that any saved money went into the mayor's pocket. The plastic blue and red marble pattern mugs we drank from had a veneer of oil that smelled like soap and old food. The oil never came off because we always did the dishes in cold water.
We sat in a circle, half of us on a couch with a couple of broken metal joints (it was leaned against the wall--this was the only thing keeping it together aside from prayer), the rest of us across the two-foot round tables on wooden folding chairs. We shared exhaustively about our witnessing, how many guests we had brought back and taught the introduction to the Divine Principle to, how many had wandered in and then wandered out. We didn't talk about how many of them were just fucking with us. I really don't think we even noticed. We were too busy saving their lives with our truth, and falling asleep on the couch at nine o clock at night talking about it, a marble red plastic mug of tepid oil tea slipping out of our hand.
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