Paradise Cafe

Two friends sit at The Cafe. The steam collects and stirs at the rim of their mugs, now tossed by breezes and lifting into shadow and sun. Does she know that I am staring at the steam taken by breezes from her cup as she suspends it before her lips to finish her sentence? They are friends at a Cafe.

Another woman, by the dusty window, looks out with a long gaze like a dog left alone. Dusty sun softens the frizzed edges of dead hair dyed orange. “Breakfast Special!” shouts the barista. She raises a fragile hand, attempts to widen her eyes, attempts to speak but the brown-bagged special is in her hands — she looks at it with a sad disbelief, as if she would prefer calamity for once; and she pushes softly into the morning.

Another lady spreads cheese on her bagel — thinking a lot about a lot of stuff or hard about one thing.

And what about me. Can I sketch myself from the outside? “Sandy blonde” and I am a cliche. But what if I add the frizzed ends. What if I add the fatigue. Too vague? The balling brown sweater? What if I add salvation sought in cafes?

The lady with the bagel reads a yellowing book about somebody else’s adventures.