“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall” ~ T.S. Elliot
Scenes from a coffee shop.
[Fade in: Sunday crowd streams through sun dappled surrounds. A female sits alone near the street-side window. Her coffee's steam drifting every time the door opens. Her left hand cradling an old Lapham’s Quarterly.]
I sit, smelling coffee, and slightly burnt toast; wondering a line that slips into my memory. A vivid scene; yet I do not place the characters in my head.
Epiphany. It’s a part from Delicacy; a book started last eve, 1 AM, whilst half asleep; half worried I’d never sleep again.
The scene: A cross street in which strangers meet. Francois sees Natalie.
Scene 2: A cafe. Natalie is deciding. Francois is waiting. Francois composes a list of scenarios silently. Natalie’s fate is based on her ordering, it shall determine this serendipitous morning. Tea, he ponders, would be death of this new relationship. A tea drinker would mark an existance plagued with a lifetime of ordinary bordem. There are no risks to drinking its murky shade; a tired brew. His lists go on and on, the winner… apricot juice.
I sit; lingering on a T.S. Elliot poem containing the line:“Before the taking of toast and tea.” The synapses go wild, forming a little snapshot scene in my brain.
Since this afternoon’s cafe, I’ve read a bit more of Delicacy. (Not my usual fare, but reviews were intriguing of this novel, turned French film.)
Verdict: Meh. It has a unique approach. Each chapter starts with a sidebar (albeit, relevant) list. The chapters themselves are quite short. The story is told from several P.O.V.. I’m not spoiling anything to telling you by page 32, Francois is dead. I’m still reading. I fear the ending shall be trite.
Death. Ironic how death creeps into things. The book I’m reading. The movie I just watched (50/50). The facebook post just before I started this musing. Even yesterday’s post: the weight of one’s soul.
This post really was not to delve into that realm again, so I shall end with the other coffee scene. (Sadly, I didn’t take a picture. I felt I’d be invading their privacy.)
[Fade in: A woman jots furiously in her notebook, near the window, the sun growing brighter upon her face. A man of an uncertain age, sets his ivories perfectly whilst the ebony pieces lay tumbled upon the board. We wait for each story to pour froth.]
The door opens once more. Another man occupies the chess board. The woman leaves her empty cup behind the bar.
[Fade out: Somewhere, a spoon clatters to the floor.]