Coffee Shop

I am here most days
because the thought of being
home makes me anxious. I can sense
its weight pulling me from across Henderson
through Bryan Park and into the mug
in my hands, but
it isn't fearful, it won't win, so I am here
watching people read and drink coffee
and have uncomfortable first meetings, watching
old words die in the eager eyes of self-
improving college students. It's a place
of irregulars, inconsistent drink orders, friendly and strange
interactions; it is colorful. I feel the baristas
must have always worked here, some limbo
where anything behind the counter remains
fixed in time, while the world blurs
in fast forward around the invisible wall.
I contemplate its complicated life. lt evolves
as I do, with ease and abrupt moments
of self-doubt; these caffeinated patrons
have memorized the arrangements of strange
thrift-store knickknacks and posters on the walls
across from their favorite seats, and yet
they don't really see them, I know they don't see them
because they were not in the same places last week.
Maybe it is because I choose my seat
upon availability, not familiarity, and in that way
I never fail to see the ever-changing flow, the new
customers. Is that how it is
to view oneself? To see no routine
in your actions, to wake up each day
and really, I mean REALLY refute the past
and the future? To escape your own
familiarity, that must be it. My home tugs me
gently onto the patio. I have a cigarette.

It feels familiar.

Maybe the decorations here
don't change, I don't know anymore.
Once I knew this place as charming
and terrifying, but those words
to me are only words that stand
for a feeling, they don't apply now. I recall
my first winter and the taste of a White
Zombie in the cozy faded-orange armchair
next to the TV aquarium. It's blurry.
I don't know if that is the memory itself or if
back then my eyes were simply more
inspired, but I remember the dangling blue
and red Christmas lights blurring out
into large hexagonal ghosts, I don't remember
any face. The memory dies before it becomes
anything. It feels like the true nature
of dreaming at night, thoughts that fade
into murmuring echoes, repeating back less
and less like the way a ball slowly stops bouncing.
It is charming and terrifying, I think, and then
I am back to the familiar world. I go inside
after my second cigarette. I stop and say hello

to several recognizable faces.

Habits are most apparent within the language
of someone who is reading. If said person
enjoys the book or article or whatever, they will smile
without knowing it, they will appear aroused
in some petrarchan way like they understand
how the moon feels or they are staring
into an imagined lover's eyes. If the content
isn't as pleasing, however, like assigned readings
or surprising messages on a phone, I've noticed
they will fidget, they will look around
for eye contact or some personal distraction.
They will jump at any opportunity to peel themselves
from the words, for a smoke
or restroom break, for an anecdote
from a friend; any excuse to avoid
the nausea is good enough. It reminds me
of the way we choose lovers. Some people seem to find one
or two or several books that they rather enjoy;
it's easy for them to pick out
just what they like. Some people have no clue, so they try
every media, every genre, and every
now and then they smile
without knowing it, they become excited.

Watching people read is exhausting.

I run into Lise, she is writing something
and I try to tell her a funny story. It involves
adderall and French homework and dancing
to folk-punk music at a gay bar. It happened
last night, and I am still coming down
from it even though it is almost
3 o'clock, so my story doesn't soar. She
barely listens, which is a shame because the story
really is a good one. I take the failure
like she would, I just shrug
and tell her I have to leave. She says she is busy, but
she'll be in touch. I hadn't planned on leaving
yet, but I go anyway because I can feel the sinking
floor above me and I might
be crushed. The building is very old.

I float home.

Reviews

[Emily B]

your words are growing, soon they will be floating along the roof tops and the mountain peaks.