Monday, June 30, 2003

spilt milk

the streetcar is running late.
a trickle of memories steers her eyes cornerward.
across the street, over the tracks, beyond the expanse of wicker chairs and faux-marble tables, etched doors swing inward onto a familiarity almost forgotten.
it won’t have changed much. the armchairs will still be deep, tufted leather. the beams will still be glaringly fake. the tables will still be too high to slouch onto.
retrospect softens them, but her recollections feel true, and generous, and remarkable, and fine.
too many glasses were filled. too many opinions collided. a generation, and a resounding clash in convictions separated them. discussions were animated, and bound to backfire.
it was extremely satisfying, as encounters go.
she sidesteps the man in the polyester suit, teeth dingy, gold gleaming, sweat stains under his armpits. a vagrant easily whines a reluctant euro into his proffered hand: her thoughts are elsewhere.
just four more minutes, the sign soothes.
four short minutes.
time flew then, too.

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