Avoir le Cafard (continued...)

I must admit that I do envy the fellow. I'm not a particularly handsome man, although I have yet to be referred to by the opposite term, but I can say for sure that a woman has never been so conflicted in parting ways with me. He must be one of those men who has it, although...if you ask, I'd have no idea what it is. So don't.

The love birds decides to part ways after a final, and rather long embrace. The woman looks back every few steps forward. The man employs cautious back steps, his gaze still upon her. He finally lifts his hand, waves one last time, and turns headstrong towards his destination as the woman fades from view. Mrs. Kelly and the man in the overcoat have finished their talk at this point and the man readies his leave, but not before he removes his coat and hands it to the woman. Having been concealed under the hood of his coat, I can see now that the revealed face belongs to Mr. Kelly. Butch Cassidy reincarnated, the man is a strikingly spitting image of the fabled criminal. Butch Cassidy! Butch Cassidy..? An honest-to-God businessman, choosing to walk the straight path and forsaking all things Culpable. Ha ha ha...it's a bit ironic should it be the case. Moving on.

After leaving his wife, he moves along 4th towards 3rd and troy, back from whence he'd come. He stops at a newspaper stand and makes a phone call as he negotiates the price of, I assume, the days paper, absent-mindedly, more concerned with whoever is on the other end of the line. He folds and tucks the paper under his arm when he leaves the stand, still talking on the phone. He crosses the street and fades from view.

Misses Kelly who remains where her husband left her, is now accompanied by a blonde woman, engaged in rapport, early morning women's banter I suppose. It's something of intrigue and excitement by the way Mrs. Kelly laughs and gestures, and moves in conspiratorially close to the blonde. They are soon joined by another fellow, the one that had earlier parted ways with his female companion, carrying in both hands what looks like coffee cups. Mrs. Kelly seem surprised, but in an excited way. She bids the blonde farewell as she receives a cup from the man. As the blonde leaves, Mrs. Kelly moves towards the shop's door, stopping only when she realized the man remains where he had stopped.

He seems reluctant, perhaps needing a bit of assurance of something which she gives by nodding her head. He obliged. That...didn't take much. Must be tough having to make a decision between an omelet and scrambled eggs.

I will make no assumption as to what could possibly be happening between those two, but I will admit that my interest is peaked. So much so that I feel the need now to get a closer look through a telescope. Especially given what I just saw. I always thought coy was a term mostly reserved for women.

I do have a telescope, but... I would rather continue my...well, I'm only now beginning to feel the effects of that which a French Archbishop is known to have referred to as "velvet and satin in bottles." 

                              

                        11a.m.

The sip from the second bottle is refreshing, more so than the first. It bears fewer years but the taste is richer somehow, fuller. The hint of carefully selected pinot noir is rampant amidst my taste buds. The smoothness almost takes me on a high like the clouds above now, gliding just above the skyline on a steady current. I envy them, the clouds, moving along without a care in the world as they are. Doesn't really matter where they'll end up but the destination has been set and driver designated. It's quite a lovely day to be a cloud. I'd love to be one of those rivulets now casting fleeting shades on the day below.

Mrs. Hefner is out as well now. Lovely lady from what I can tell. Much older now, mid seventies maybe, but I imagine she was quite the looker in her prime. She seems at peace sitting there next to her make-shift garden with a book in hand. Willa Carter's "The Song Of the Lark" I believe it is, from what I can tell through the telescope. Every now and again she looks up at the sky--there seems to be regret, as well as fire in her eyes--and then she goes back to reading. I fear for her, being as high as she is, although I also wonder why, but she appears quite strong for her age. Her back is straight and she doesn't need any support with her movement. She's got quite a pep in her step as a matter of fact.

I wonder what she makes of it all, the sky above...the almost synchronized commotion below? I have a sudden need to want to talk to her now. I'd like to know who she is, where she's been; happenings of days by-gone, when things went right or wrong. Has life been worth living for so long? Had her dreams come through? Had she been in love? Had she expressed it as such? And now, at the twilight of it all, how does she view the world?

I do hope my perceptions of her are true, limited as they are. I'd hate to find she's simply a version of me, still...my desire remains the same. There's an ever-present learning curb with the elderly that intrigues me. But...it's wishful thinking of course. A bird, in a cage, often never uses it's beak to unlock the gate even though the dream of flight is too great to resist. I fear though, that she may just as well find me dull and uninteresting. Unlikable. Most seems to. Often in short frames of time, sometimes even before words are spoken. Arbitrary. Passive. A hindrance to making any true human connection, which is what I long for the most.

This is another reason I'm able to tell this tale, admittedly so igniting my curiosity as it does, being that it's held in a way that is bothersome. Nerve wearing. The why of it. I wonder sometimes if Gale was right in asserting that my kind is essentially a useless thread within the fabric of existence. Perhaps the stigma that is such longing should be visible to the naked eye, or perhaps it is. A marker of sorts. Understandably deeming avoidance then...I can't be sure.

Because if the aforementioned is true, there are others who are seemingly unaware it exists, they are completely blind to its visuality. It's either that or they have chosen to ignore it completely, because doing so is advantageous in some way. Much like those suited-men Gale mentioned.

            

                                                                        To be continued...

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