An old man, balding, sits heavily...

I float between cafes and restaurants, oft with no companion but my books. What I see, hear, and feel in those community lifesprings becomes the subject of my writing. I appreciate your willingness to gaze upon my interpretations.

May 11, 2013

An old man, balding, sits heavily against the picture window framed backdrop of Ann Arbor afternoon. In front of him lay a collection of china saucers, plates, and a tea cup, which he slowly raises to his lips to sip, tentatively, as if the heat of the Frisia brew could suddenly increase at any moment. His eyes betray nothing of boredom, of enjoyment, or of sorrow, but simply gaze observantly down at the traffic flux below. His shirt, a light pink which is neither wrinkled nor ironed, is contrasted with the dark slacks which just barely cover his ankles. He shifts slightly and places a hand at the side of head, as if to say, this existence is a headache, but then again perhaps to say, the weight of my mind needs support. Across from him sits not an energetic child, nor the companion which most men his age have settled with, but rather his briefcase and a windbreaker, stacked in such a way that if hit just right by the slowly fading sun, it would seem the caricature of a good friend, slouched over an empty table setting. Perhaps the placement was intentional, or perhaps the man is thinking his own placement lonely or cruel, in this stifling room where he cannot enjoy tea with anything but the work papers or cold electronics or miscellany in the bag. Something in my soul resonates with this man, past or present or future unknown to me, and as his flesh becomes bound to my memory, I wonder if perhaps I see myself, purposelessly supping in a naive place, alone and disenchanted, watched by a curious mind who can think of no novelty but to contemplate my incompleteness.