At the counter making a selection, a tall woman and a short man; does he stand on his tip toes to kiss her?
A married couple sitting at a table. Seated for four. Not next or across but diagonal from one another. Knees pointed away, eyes averted. Newspaper print between their fingers; their only connection, except for the wedding bands.
A guitarist with a mic strumming sweet tunes. A strong voice in a small man’s body. Does he sing from experience? His family at the table beside ours. Another Saturday night.
A young boy sitting with his mother experimenting with tea flavours. A large bladder, no doubt.
Two old greying men with thick European accents. Wearing woollen sweaters. Three pots, six cups. More experimenting? Tea testers, tea tasters. Tea fanatics, “tea freaks.” Or, just enjoying their youth. Reliving.
Megan across from me. Hair down to her elbows. Paper cranes and origami fish. Her moments of inspiration; her pen on paper. “Flushing.” A deep sigh. Comtemplative. A stare into the distance. A glisten in her eye. A tear? Perhaps.
I watch her with reverence. Her strength is undeniable. I watch her as if my body is displaced by time. Her Waterloo has not ended, mine some months ago. I know her pain, her loneliness, her dying youth. She will find peace. She will find. She will. She.
A night of discovery. $20 between the pages of my notebook. Was it you who put it there? A email conversation printed on paper. To: Katie, Love: Sarah. A Christmas card from C falls from its hiding place. The forever presence of best friends.
Rediscovery.
The bench outside. A first date. A chilly Thursday in late September. My legs placed across his lap. Removal from time. Hope. Despair. A search for sanctuary. Still searching.
We awake from our slumber, three hours have passed. Snow falls heavily from the dark sky. We wonder how long its been falling. How long we’ve been falling. We put on our jackets and enter the night. “Flushed” and giggling…
When will we land?
