she walks into the small cafe. crowded tables, filled chairs, humanity pressed against the wall. small tables. intimate tables. she is nervous. too much humanity. too close. she does not always mind the human horde. earlier she had sat peacefully at the railway station, thankful to be anonymous speck in the churning of civilisation. here there is no anonymity. she must make herself known. offer up a fragment of her soul to another. it is always this way. when she must talk about what she thinks. or writes. or about what matters to her. already she feels exposed. vulnerable.
there he is. reading. at home in the crowded cafe. small table. with small chairs. in the centre of the room. she stumbles. he looks up. she mumbles something and hopes its a greeting. she drops her awkward bag, perches on the edge of the chair. a bird ready to take flight. his hands close the book. she sees them. white hands with long, tapered fingers. hands that caress a violin, lightly and tenderly stroke piano keys, write eloquent thoughts with a fountain pen. nervously she wrings her hand under the table. hands that caressed children, lightly and tenderly planted out seedlings only yesterday, scribbled fleeting thoughts this morning, with a leaking biro, found under the dusty fridge. an idea came wandering through her mind and was quickly captured on the back of a shopping list. before it had a chance to disappear, disgusted at its inhospitable welcome.
he inclines his head. for a moment she is captured by his clear and steady gaze, an honest face. without veneer and deception. or so she thinks. but she can't be sure. can she read curiosity? regard? uncertainty? intelligent people are hard to read. to judge. to trust. she shifts. the bird on her perch longs to fly through the distant door to freedom.
for a moment she thinks of small talk. social graces. water-cooler gossip. fill in the silence. live with the silence. fill in the silence... her eloquent ideals - honesty. integrity. vulnerability. truth. slip under the seat and pool beneath the small table, along with her fragile self-confidence. she desperately gathers up her remaining fleeting thoughts in the moments it takes to order. he fills her glass. orders soup. she thinks she should have lunch. she knows it but she can't eat. in small spaces. crowded. she can't breathe. and orders a hot chocolate.
he is a moment of unreality. something between a scholar and a saint. an apparition that formed from the small seat, at the small table in a crowded cafe, pouring water into her glass. an apparition that grew flesh, embodied all she ever imagined for herself (with all the social graces) but never could be. breathe. break the silence.
words cross the distance. she speaks. something about her thesis, but cannot remember. he replies but she doesn't hear. minutes tick by. she drinks her hot chocolate. feels the liquid run down her throat. remembers the aztec warriors ran all day on a mug of hot chocolate.
she asks him a question. and another. and another. the words close the distance. he smiles. she stretches a little, testing the small space. the words return to order. she holds them for a moment and releases them. she laughs self-depreciatingly. gestures with her hands. interrupts him. presses him. searching for the words that bring understanding.
and gathers her pooled ideals from the ground. honesty. integrity. vulnerability. truth. and her fragile self-confidence returns. the apparition turned flesh rises. they walk to the counter. she pays. he pays. do you write poetry or fiction? he asks. i'm not sure, i think philosophy is killing my creative spirit, she smiles wryly. then wonders why it should be so.
the light beckons. outside, away from the crowded cafe, with the intimate tables and small chairs, and the water pouring into her glass, the apparition becomes human. and they walk along the footpath. ordinary people. making small talk. she tells him she has seen a helleborus, lenten rose, in the old gardens of the university. nobody plants the lenten rose anymore. it is the forgotten heritage of the old university. she notices because she is an incurable romantic. he asks her to describe it. and she does.
leaving behind a fragment of her soul, she says goodbye. steps on the bus. steps back towards another life. and remembers there is poetry in philosophy, too. she just has to write it.
there he is. reading. at home in the crowded cafe. small table. with small chairs. in the centre of the room. she stumbles. he looks up. she mumbles something and hopes its a greeting. she drops her awkward bag, perches on the edge of the chair. a bird ready to take flight. his hands close the book. she sees them. white hands with long, tapered fingers. hands that caress a violin, lightly and tenderly stroke piano keys, write eloquent thoughts with a fountain pen. nervously she wrings her hand under the table. hands that caressed children, lightly and tenderly planted out seedlings only yesterday, scribbled fleeting thoughts this morning, with a leaking biro, found under the dusty fridge. an idea came wandering through her mind and was quickly captured on the back of a shopping list. before it had a chance to disappear, disgusted at its inhospitable welcome.
he inclines his head. for a moment she is captured by his clear and steady gaze, an honest face. without veneer and deception. or so she thinks. but she can't be sure. can she read curiosity? regard? uncertainty? intelligent people are hard to read. to judge. to trust. she shifts. the bird on her perch longs to fly through the distant door to freedom.
for a moment she thinks of small talk. social graces. water-cooler gossip. fill in the silence. live with the silence. fill in the silence... her eloquent ideals - honesty. integrity. vulnerability. truth. slip under the seat and pool beneath the small table, along with her fragile self-confidence. she desperately gathers up her remaining fleeting thoughts in the moments it takes to order. he fills her glass. orders soup. she thinks she should have lunch. she knows it but she can't eat. in small spaces. crowded. she can't breathe. and orders a hot chocolate.
he is a moment of unreality. something between a scholar and a saint. an apparition that formed from the small seat, at the small table in a crowded cafe, pouring water into her glass. an apparition that grew flesh, embodied all she ever imagined for herself (with all the social graces) but never could be. breathe. break the silence.
words cross the distance. she speaks. something about her thesis, but cannot remember. he replies but she doesn't hear. minutes tick by. she drinks her hot chocolate. feels the liquid run down her throat. remembers the aztec warriors ran all day on a mug of hot chocolate.
she asks him a question. and another. and another. the words close the distance. he smiles. she stretches a little, testing the small space. the words return to order. she holds them for a moment and releases them. she laughs self-depreciatingly. gestures with her hands. interrupts him. presses him. searching for the words that bring understanding.
and gathers her pooled ideals from the ground. honesty. integrity. vulnerability. truth. and her fragile self-confidence returns. the apparition turned flesh rises. they walk to the counter. she pays. he pays. do you write poetry or fiction? he asks. i'm not sure, i think philosophy is killing my creative spirit, she smiles wryly. then wonders why it should be so.
the light beckons. outside, away from the crowded cafe, with the intimate tables and small chairs, and the water pouring into her glass, the apparition becomes human. and they walk along the footpath. ordinary people. making small talk. she tells him she has seen a helleborus, lenten rose, in the old gardens of the university. nobody plants the lenten rose anymore. it is the forgotten heritage of the old university. she notices because she is an incurable romantic. he asks her to describe it. and she does.
leaving behind a fragment of her soul, she says goodbye. steps on the bus. steps back towards another life. and remembers there is poetry in philosophy, too. she just has to write it.
