A simple exercise.
Here we be. Here I am. And now, there might be something that can be done. Something that I could say or do. Something that I could think. Just talk. Don’t think, not this time. That’s all you need, just to start with a beginning, letting your feet get just a little, just a little, just a little damp. Just enough to know where you are. Give you a solid ground of liquid, a fair bit of, “My feet are wet.” Just enough to put you someplace where you know you have someplace to go. So. Here you are, you brainless git. So talk. Talk to someone. Or with someone. Or perhaps, even about someone.
Anyone.
There’s a girl, one who just walked into this place, shirt slipped off the surface of her shoulder, giving the quiet establishment a fair glimpse of her fair skin. Probably caring about the 80’s style implied by her dress, but not talking, not looking at anything other than the pale yellow of her cup of tea. The light of the world is shining on it, that cup. It glows with the certainty of a new day. It’s lovely.
She’s alone.
There’s a man, hair tousled either by design or by long nights where sleep had become nothing but a distant memory. His lips move, a reaction, oblivious to anything other than the words that emerge from the face of his tiny laptop, neither knowing nor caring that he telegraphs his words to the outside world. He might be watching. He might be typing. He might be reading. Whatever it is, it’s clear to all that the man wishes to think. It’s a noble endeavor if there ever was one. With that, I wish him the best.
He’s concentrating.
There’s a woman, jaw working with the undulations associated with chewing a piece of gum. It’s a free sample, one that came attached to the label upon her coffee sleeve, one that she probably didn’t realize would make her mouth move up and down and around, a person with her cud. She should learn to chew with her mouth closed, some might say. I’d be among them. But she won’t stop. And she won’t notice, even if she’s told.
She’s reading.
There’s a man, one who walks with the small-paced swagger that reminiscent of fathers and grandfathers, men that you grow up with. Men that sometimes, you wish will pass you by. His graying beard and cheery smile seem out of place. He looks like someone you would see walking down the street in the midday son, whistling some bygone tune, not thinking about buying tea in a coffee-joint primarily frequented by pretentious fucks. Myself included.
He’s gone.
There’s a cashier, hands making noises that sound like porcelain, moving in places that the eye can’t manage to see. Working quickly and efficiently, not quite having reached the point where the day since passed hangs from the neck like a weight, every movement redefining “sluggish.” But still, she looks out the window with an interest that recalls freedom, even as she smiles at all those who sit within the world that is currently her realm. The smile might be genuine. It might just be another lie.
She’s energetic.
There’s a new man, one who looks over the ridge of his thin, metallic frames, giving the people among him a glare that suggests a bored sense of superiority. He has work to do. At the very least, that’s what he thinks, as he prepares his laptop for his business with a languid pace, practically sneering at anyone who chooses to look his way. His hair is short, his clothes are neat.
He’s a prick.
There’s a woman, with a man. They sit close together, their backs facing this pair of prying eyes, not giving a face to the lack of a name. But they’re close. His hand placed against her right shoulder, massaging it with firm circles, her neck moving slightly in accordance with his efforts. They move in sync, action with its reactions, the pair of them keyed by the same glow that affected that cup of tea. And when her head turns, I can finally see her face.
She’s happy.
And then, there is a man. Or not. He’s male, that much is certain. But he moves with steps not easy enough for his height, jerky movements that telegraph nerves and disunity with the world at large. He might be a boy. He might be. He might be an adult on paper, but his face looks onward at this place as if it doesn’t have a clue, glancing from person to person without knowing who anyone is, as if he were trying to accomplish something. He wants to be a man. Maybe. Maybe he’s just waiting. Waiting by passing the time, letting this space waste the day, letting his movements waste him away. And that might well be true. But he might also be waiting for something else. Inspiration? Life? Love? Dreams? Existence? Nothing. Knowing nothing. He’s hoping for so much. For everything, even.
He’s…well, I imagine you can guess.
Anyone.
There’s a girl, one who just walked into this place, shirt slipped off the surface of her shoulder, giving the quiet establishment a fair glimpse of her fair skin. Probably caring about the 80’s style implied by her dress, but not talking, not looking at anything other than the pale yellow of her cup of tea. The light of the world is shining on it, that cup. It glows with the certainty of a new day. It’s lovely.
She’s alone.
There’s a man, hair tousled either by design or by long nights where sleep had become nothing but a distant memory. His lips move, a reaction, oblivious to anything other than the words that emerge from the face of his tiny laptop, neither knowing nor caring that he telegraphs his words to the outside world. He might be watching. He might be typing. He might be reading. Whatever it is, it’s clear to all that the man wishes to think. It’s a noble endeavor if there ever was one. With that, I wish him the best.
He’s concentrating.
There’s a woman, jaw working with the undulations associated with chewing a piece of gum. It’s a free sample, one that came attached to the label upon her coffee sleeve, one that she probably didn’t realize would make her mouth move up and down and around, a person with her cud. She should learn to chew with her mouth closed, some might say. I’d be among them. But she won’t stop. And she won’t notice, even if she’s told.
She’s reading.
There’s a man, one who walks with the small-paced swagger that reminiscent of fathers and grandfathers, men that you grow up with. Men that sometimes, you wish will pass you by. His graying beard and cheery smile seem out of place. He looks like someone you would see walking down the street in the midday son, whistling some bygone tune, not thinking about buying tea in a coffee-joint primarily frequented by pretentious fucks. Myself included.
He’s gone.
There’s a cashier, hands making noises that sound like porcelain, moving in places that the eye can’t manage to see. Working quickly and efficiently, not quite having reached the point where the day since passed hangs from the neck like a weight, every movement redefining “sluggish.” But still, she looks out the window with an interest that recalls freedom, even as she smiles at all those who sit within the world that is currently her realm. The smile might be genuine. It might just be another lie.
She’s energetic.
There’s a new man, one who looks over the ridge of his thin, metallic frames, giving the people among him a glare that suggests a bored sense of superiority. He has work to do. At the very least, that’s what he thinks, as he prepares his laptop for his business with a languid pace, practically sneering at anyone who chooses to look his way. His hair is short, his clothes are neat.
He’s a prick.
There’s a woman, with a man. They sit close together, their backs facing this pair of prying eyes, not giving a face to the lack of a name. But they’re close. His hand placed against her right shoulder, massaging it with firm circles, her neck moving slightly in accordance with his efforts. They move in sync, action with its reactions, the pair of them keyed by the same glow that affected that cup of tea. And when her head turns, I can finally see her face.
She’s happy.
And then, there is a man. Or not. He’s male, that much is certain. But he moves with steps not easy enough for his height, jerky movements that telegraph nerves and disunity with the world at large. He might be a boy. He might be. He might be an adult on paper, but his face looks onward at this place as if it doesn’t have a clue, glancing from person to person without knowing who anyone is, as if he were trying to accomplish something. He wants to be a man. Maybe. Maybe he’s just waiting. Waiting by passing the time, letting this space waste the day, letting his movements waste him away. And that might well be true. But he might also be waiting for something else. Inspiration? Life? Love? Dreams? Existence? Nothing. Knowing nothing. He’s hoping for so much. For everything, even.
He’s…well, I imagine you can guess.
posted by Your friend, the fool at 8:18 PM
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