The Coffee Break

Sitting cross legged, combing the crowds.

Against Sade's "King of Sorrow," a sea of moving bodies, jutting forward in insanity.

Sounds emanating from assorted lips all but silenced by my insulated ear buds. 

Tracing the elaborate floor pattern, my eyes trail to the end of what sits before me. 

A sea of stories. 

An unwritten novel of experiences.

Eyes battered, swollen and puffy.

A woman made victim by the years of her very animation. 

I wonder what led to the hollowness that emanates from the depths of her soul. 

Neighbouring this stranger, a handsome and aged duo. 

She, engulfed in a full-length splash of suede.

He, dressed with a look of intellectualism. 

Engaged in discussion, yet fantastically disengaged from one another. 

Years of weathered marriage made clear by the evidence of an outmoded band.

The white picket fence of their lives in need of clamant repair.

Across, a grey haired veteran. 

Talking rhythmically, yet only to himself. 

Shall I strap to him a label of insanity, or simply reserve judgement? 

Seconds later, clarity.

A gentleman simply discussing the deteriorating state of his stocks and bonds. 

Conversing with technology, a talking device nestled in his ear, invisible at this limited angle.

 

Interrupted, his server removes the used cup.

Green apron, polarized by rosacea-prone cheeks and awkward braces.

A teenager who hides beneath a rock of questions.

A set of which bet dollars upon the demise of her ugly duckling stage.

From my peripheral vision, a young man. 

Red hat, swagger.

A sense of virile and pronounced masculinity imprinted upon his face. 

Scarred by hardships, an exterior mapping and directing strangers where not to travel.

Soundtrack change.

Otis yearningly wading through the soul's notes.

Sitting still, privileged yet complacent, I witness the warm bonds, the empty solitude.

The human condition. 

Fascinating.

With a half empty cup of coffee, a book spine cracked and blistered, I wait for the mysteries of my own world to reveal themselves.

Tapping my left foot to James Brown's wails, I track, I pace...

Time.

Never fully understanding the weight of another's baggage, even after lengthy periods of observation.

I swell with emotion to the sounds of a heightening horn section. 

From the brutish words of Chapter three, I raise my bewildered eyes. 

Slow and steady.

Taken aback by the acrolith that stands before me.

A caramel hand, resting on the unstable chair.

The broad weight of his sculptured torso, free-standing in contrapposto, mimicking the famed Kritios Boy circa 480 B.C.

My mystery.

Fascinating.

Eyes of marked intention.

An invite, from me to you, to fill in the vacant seat at this two person table.