Thursday, 11 April 2013

A Portrait of a Coffee House.

A woman of music to my side, I don’t know what she is working on. I see musical notes on the book she is reading. I wonder, can she play the piano beautifully? I’ve always wanted to be sat by a musician and be mesmerised. It is difficult to impress me, and I have never felt it. There is a beautiful woman on my other side - she works on a chemistry book. She looks too beautiful and elegant to linger on such an elementary book - but what do I know of such things? Her eyes are round and full, with thick lining on their perimeter - she’s thin and slender and walks with a certain awkward authority. She’s in black.

A gentleman in a suit is scribbling on a piece of paper - he seems to be carrying a school bag. I’ve seen many suit-wearers do so - perhaps it is cost effective? But their suits always seem so expensive. His coffee is left untouched at the edge of his table. My coffee is left untouched at the edge of mine.

A family sits at the far end of the place on what seems like a leather sofa. I am confused of what their relationship is with this coffee house. A daughter, or at least I believe she is, is walking about helping with the dishes on the table. The waiters doesn't seem to mind - is she a waiter too, but in plain clothing? I don’t know.

I can’t give you anything but love, says Billie Holiday into my ears. What do you do when someone does not care? Like that man, staring into his laptop, looking at a blank page. Perhaps he is a writer? A writer as I? My eyes do not know the difference. I can’t give you anything but love, Billie Holiday sings.

Do you think that elderly lady, sipping her mocha alone, is wondering the same thing? She wipes her mouth, taking her last sip. It’s so easy to clean the dirtiness outside our body. If we were inverted, like ripped cushions, inside out, with our innards spilling forth - like burst cotton pods - most of us would seem disgusting. So would I. My cotton would be dirty - black, so would most people’s here. Their cotton would be dirty - black. But they all look so clean now - I didn’t bother to shower this morning. She always showered - she remained dirty.

Did you ever see a dream romancing? Well I do. Gene Austin. But my dream does not, I am here alone. There are two men, beside the now, gone, family - they seemed to be deep in their work. Two women in their fifties are leaving. One kept eyeing me - whatever for? Perhaps she was curious, as I am curious of many things. The gentleman in the suit is leaving, with his grey schoolbag. Does he know he looks a little silly? Does he even care? It is easy when you don’t care, like she never does.

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