It is the only sentence taking root in the mind. The rest is blurry, out of focus, as both brain and eyes are distracted far too easily from the excellence that is the text they should adore:
The ant that scuttles along the farthest corner of the eye. The wave of cheerful laughter wafting over from the Bistro across the street. The young, stout, arse-wiggling girl with the overblown makeup of a parisian drag-queen. The roaring noise of passing cars that always seem to come in threes. The brief moments of silence in between it all.
I take a sip from my cup of coffee. It has been sitting in the glaring sunlight for almost half an hour. It is nearly cold. A mosquito sits on the saucer. It flaps its wings, feeling its way on the unfamiliar surface like a blind man, slipping, falling, landing on its back, struggling back on its feet, performing the strangest dance on its porcelain stage.
A cyclist approaches and gracefully parks his bike alongside the hedge that borders the beergarden. The way he flounces across to the tables exposes him as the show-off he is. He takes a seat at the table next to mine. In his attire he looks like a member of a SWAT team, a fireman from a future where they don't read books anymore, but burn them instead. I firmly hold on to my novel, as for a split-second I expect him to produce a flamethrower. It turns out to be just a lighter. As if to belie his outfit and his athletic build he orders a pint and lights up a fag.
The cyclist uninvitedly introduces himself as Heinz and throws sentences over to my table. I smile and nod occasionally, resort to the briefest possible replies, while still trying to read. It is in vein, as the verbal bombardment increases.
While still trying to remain polite I decide I've had enough. I look at the sky, then at my watch, and pretend to realise how late it has become. Swiftly I drink up and pay.
I apologise to my newfound, unintended friend and make an exit, as shadows grow into giants and die, as the sun burns orange and sinks.
No comments:
Post a Comment