Sunday, November 29

Lonely Café

I DO NOT BELIEVE that I am being melodramatic when I say that I have not felt especially alive recently. It is just a period I am going through. Most of the day I am in a state of neither joyfulness or misery, however at times I feel a sharp pang of unfortunate sadness; that is when I believe—Ah, yes, I am alive; that is all I have to go on. It is not that I am lacking experiences – although I am, I suppose – but that the world I inhabit and the life I live stir nothing in me except a sleepy disinterest. Yes, hopefully it is just a period I am going through. It is, I suspect, a reaction to the seasons changing. Time, too, is rushing so fast. One moment I am thinking of Sunday evening, then it is Tuesday, then it is Friday! No time at all has passed, but it has been five days! Nothing has happened! I am an unremarkable creature living an unremarkable life; gladly I write it down for all to witness and become tired of. I will not blame them.
Give me the equinox. Give me the prospect of spring. Lock me up in a tower for the winter. Sedate me and sever all communication. I am done with this year.
A new café had opened up in the ground floor of one of my favourite bookshops. The old one was in the basement, without a window. It was usually empty and was a good enough place to be after I had spent an hour going through all the merchandise. This new one is on the ground floor and is decorated as many fashionable cafés are: sparsely and with lots of wood and white. I was severely anxious and weak, so a coffee was a bad idea, but I wanted one all the same. The girl behind the till had thick dark eyebrows, a square jaw and very white skin. She could not hear a word I said, but I feared that if I spoke any louder I would collapse in a heap. Perspiration poured out of me. A chocolate and pecan cookie might steady my legs. The coffee was repulsive, the kind of hot flavourless piss they usually serve in department stores. Many of the customers were on laptops, a few read books. Me, I looked out of the window. A large black rectangle with faint shapes carrying on behind it, flickering, not quite solid, but distorted and viscous from the rain. Largely the shapes were pale and white, but some stood out, some came through the splattered glass and made an impression on me. I could not bear to gaze upon the other punters, holed in from the rain, drinking disgusting coffee. Nor did I flick through my book purchases but sit there looking out at the rain, which occurred to me to be a most typical thing to do in a lonely café.
Finally I left, walking down G—e St in the rain and the wind. The cold felt good. The pavements shimmered with the wet. An erect Christmas tree at the top of the road shook and fluttered, fluffed up by the gusts and all of its white lamps bouncing. What else was there for me?

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blank Template By