The rain started around 8:30, but I still walked down the street to get coffee. Places had stopped serving decaf; everyone was pouring coffee over bits of diamonds or something in some sort of attempt at achieving zen through cacao beans. People are always trying to achieve zen one way or another, and I distrusted coffee as much as I distrusted politics and religion. The human state of affairs was a fairly static thing, not to be out smarted by cold brews, slow pour coffees or anything of the like. Life is as confusing, relentless and boring as ever.
At the coffee shop I drank coffee and looked across the room at a woman I loved. After a while, when she didn't notice me, I watched the small bead of condensation on the wooden table where I'd rested my cup, the small smudges at the edge of the window, which looked out onto a street where cars were parked or honking or looking impatient, grey and blue. I listened to the song they were playing over the speakers, half-distracted by the rain falling on the asphalt.
I'd parted from someone recently, which is really just a nice way of saying that she left. I didn't mind because things had been going south for a while. In the evenings, I'd watch Jeopardy and try and get all the answers right. Invariably, I'd be wrong at least percent of the time, and this bothered her. "If you don't know," she asked, "Why shout out the answer?" The truth of the matter is that if I didn't shout things out when I didn't know I'd have to pass my entire life as a mute. I don't know myself, or the world, or who the first president of Mauritania was, but I can guess, I can flail around. I can yell at the television as if the world is something I understand. I could have been Ken Jennings if she'd supported me, but you know how it goes.
The moment she left I started to miss her. I miss the way that she used to take her shoes off by the door, leaving her small pale feet exposed and how quietly she'd then move around the apartment, opening the blinds to sit in the afternoon sunlight while reading a magazine. I missed how when she showered, she'd leave the door open and then sing, very lightly, slightly off key, but unselfconsciously, as though you couldn't hear her even though she must have known that you could. I missed making love, sure, but everyone misses that sort of thing. I missed the way she used to sit on the couch and brush her hair in the morning, humming along as she pulled the comb through her hair in the early morning light. I guess the list could just go on forever, but it still wouldn't bring her back.
At the coffee shop I drank coffee and looked across the room at a woman I loved. After a while, when she didn't notice me, I watched the small bead of condensation on the wooden table where I'd rested my cup, the small smudges at the edge of the window, which looked out onto a street where cars were parked or honking or looking impatient, grey and blue. I listened to the song they were playing over the speakers, half-distracted by the rain falling on the asphalt.
I'd parted from someone recently, which is really just a nice way of saying that she left. I didn't mind because things had been going south for a while. In the evenings, I'd watch Jeopardy and try and get all the answers right. Invariably, I'd be wrong at least percent of the time, and this bothered her. "If you don't know," she asked, "Why shout out the answer?" The truth of the matter is that if I didn't shout things out when I didn't know I'd have to pass my entire life as a mute. I don't know myself, or the world, or who the first president of Mauritania was, but I can guess, I can flail around. I can yell at the television as if the world is something I understand. I could have been Ken Jennings if she'd supported me, but you know how it goes.
The moment she left I started to miss her. I miss the way that she used to take her shoes off by the door, leaving her small pale feet exposed and how quietly she'd then move around the apartment, opening the blinds to sit in the afternoon sunlight while reading a magazine. I missed how when she showered, she'd leave the door open and then sing, very lightly, slightly off key, but unselfconsciously, as though you couldn't hear her even though she must have known that you could. I missed making love, sure, but everyone misses that sort of thing. I missed the way she used to sit on the couch and brush her hair in the morning, humming along as she pulled the comb through her hair in the early morning light. I guess the list could just go on forever, but it still wouldn't bring her back.
No comments:
Post a Comment