Thursday, January 07, 2010
I can imagine perfectly how we would meet one day. I would be doing something in a laidback cafe, in the corner of X and X, drinking my second cup of coffee. It would be a cafe near the sea, where we would feel truly the borders of worlds. It would be a bright afternoon, not too late in the day. It would be a Sunday. The air would have the breeziness of a lazy summer. The traffic would be a crawl. A man and his dog would pass by. He would also be carrying a pink parasol. A young woman would jog past him, and a young boy, about nine, would cross her path with a red bicycle some uncle just bought him for a birthday gift. I would not see any of these. Everything is telescoped into the thing that I would be doing -- something. I don't know what that would be. Perhaps I'd be reading a book. Perhaps I'd be writing on a laptop. Perhaps there would be ten ounces of worry in my hands, and there was serious contemplation to do. There would be no clouds, I suppose, only an infiniteness of blue. It is a blue that extends far to the horizon where I could only imagine a different world existing and not there, not where I would be in that forlorn cafe, doing something.
And then I would just happen to look up. Why? I don't know exactly why.
But I would look up and there you would be. We both would catch each other's eyes. Your eyes would hold me. I would not look away. I don't know who would smile first. Perhaps you -- I am eternally shy. And then I'd smile back, and go back to what I'd be doing. That something. I'd be smiling still.
The next thing I'd know, you'd be there right in front of me.
"Hello," you'd say.
When I would turn to look at you again, my smile all nervous, I'd say --
 This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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