I have only one teacup at home. It is girly and cheap with an odd shape and pink paint.  I hardly ever use it; it just sits in my room atop a lace doily gathering dust.

When I go to the teahouse I can drink out of real porcelain painted with roses. I drink tea at home in simple cups; but when I drink from porcelain of maidens, the tea tastes sweeter.

I pour massive amounts of sugar in my tea. I use the largest spoon and plop spoonfull after spoonful. My favoreite sister says it is just a nasty gloop, but it tastes good to me. Here, at the teahouse, I don't need that much. Everything is sweeter there.

At the teahouse I sit in frills, and at home I do not. At home my false sister laughs at me and ridicules my every choice. So I wear it to the teahouse, my black skirt swaying as I enter and the lace lies delicately against my skin.

The kind women cater to me and give me complements, and I feel as though I live in the day of Victoria or Rococo.