Coffee, with Preoccupations
I walked through the city, where there was much noise and distraction, but still the selfishness consumed me, of time lost, hours spent reading, writing, simply nothing. Of what might have occurred. Today there is always something to do, and soon there will be even more. There will be no time for thought or rationality on things, and the truth is I don’t know how I feel about this, other than like a man come to the end of something.A few days prior, I had thought it a good idea to travel to an isolated island off the north eastern coast, and not only did the travel take up much time of our short break away, it also transplanted us to a very quiet place and the quiet did not make the thoughts so easy to ignore. We returned to the city after two nights.
I was to meet Marianne at a small pasticceria close to the hotel, for coffee and pastry filled with sweet ricotta cheese, the sweet ricotta so lovely that you want to climb right into it. She had not been feeling well but had wanted to get out.
I walked past buildings, old and faded and dirty, and falling to pieces, broken render revealing the anatomy beneath, and tagged red, blue, yellow, green, black. Through the shadowed alleys and streets, and sometimes on the balconies there would be a toothless resident, like some ancient consul watching with bored indifference. Walking these narrow streets, always a car or motorcycle, having to step aside to allow the vehicle to pass, and in time I spewed out into the arena of the piazza.
Marianne sat at a table, under the shade of a lemon tree. The light shone through the foliage with biblical gravity and a feeling of overwhelming sadness washed over me. I wanted to pull her close to me.
She saw me and waved.
How fickle we are! The old life, how things have changed these last few years, have you forgotten the bleak loneliness? They say it is better than dying and going to heaven, but I could not accept it without resistance.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Better, thanks. How was your walk?”
“Great, thanks. I’ve been all over. I feel like a salmon!”
I showed her the images on my phone.
From the piazza, the mountains were visible all about, surrounding the city. The cloud lingered about them, like two hands touching, not wanting to let go or be away.
“You’re mute again.”
“Yes”, I said. I didn’t have the guts to admit it to her. I was so god damned scared, the most frightened I had ever been. We drank our coffee; absently listened to the song coming faintly from the café.
“...face like an angel, she could be anything...”
“Have you thought of any names yet?”
I listened, thought about it.
“Yes, I have.”
Marianne looked down and placed her hands on the bump growing beneath her dress, smiled.
Jonathan Wallen
