I am brooding. Well, perhaps. Perhaps this is only one of “those” moments. You know, one of those moments spent lost somewhere beyond the concerns of the day and still not quite fully abandoned in fantasy or forgetfulness.
But maybe you know what I mean. For me at least, it seems that there are times that seem detached. When I can sit back and think of the things happening around me. These are the times when I feel most aware, and when I think most deeply, and – if truth be admitted – when I most enjoy myself. Not being quite as caught up in the excitement of doing I have some perspective by which to reflect on a situation, to savor the experience rather than to be consumed by its passion.
Surely you must have these experiences also?
There are places I associate with each of these moments. Everyone has such places I suppose.
Wait. Don’t tell me just yet. Instead let me guess! ….hmmm. I would have to say that you, …for you, it is in the bath. And not just any bath. You would have an oversized bathtub, filled deeply with piping hot water. Probably one of those old cast iron baths with a white porcelain finish, the high back, and the claw feet. The room would be warm, misty, …dimly lit by late afternoon sunlight coming through a small leaded window near the ceiling. Perhaps a wrap around lace curtain has been hung in place of the shower drapery. Of course it would be silent and would have absolutely nothing that would cause you to think of anything outside those walls. Ah, one last item – I think you would have a candle or two burning. You would soak in the warmth, stare past the idle flicker, dimly note the faint smoky fragrance and begin to recollect some earlier time. And just maybe, it seems clearer to you. That is when your moments begin…
It is cliché, but am I right?
Even if I am not, perhaps this helps you to better understand what I mean.
Anyway, “No.” My place is not the bath. There is a little gathering place near the campus that serves my purposes well enough. It is just a little restaurant that provides coffee, tea, bottled beer and small tables where all sorts of people stop to sit and talk. Perhaps just as important, it also provides a wall of small paned windows that look out over the courtyard and onto the street. I can’t forget those. Without those it could easily be lost among the hundred or so other little coffee shop-cum-watering holes that seem to multiply when we aren’t looking. But this place has been there long enough to have its own history - and the requisite hanger-ons to retell the stories. It is just far enough from the university that somehow it serves as much as neighborhood café as student hangout and a little bit as clubroom for the professionals that work in the area.
The crowd depends on the time and the day. Each time it brings different stories to mind -
- - - - - - - -
Leaves & Lovers
I dropped in to “my place” mid-day on Sunday just to sit and read by the window. I knew it would be quiet and it was. A perfect place to sit and watch the wind blow the fallen leaves around on a cool and damp fall day.
Jenny, one of the servers and a graduate student at the University, saw me as I walked in and gave me that special smile and animated welcome that she saves for, well, absolutely everyone.
This time is was; “Hey, Hi! How are you? Wait! I have something perfect for reading. Grab a seat I’ll be right back!”
“Um, I’m fine.” I stammered, but she was gone.
I took a seat in the corner by the windows. Soon Jenny was back.
“Try this. Gerry decided this would go well with the weather.” Then, grinning broadly, “I think the fall makes him sentimental. Anyway, tell me what you think. I’ll be back later.”
With that, she left me to myself, my book, and what turned out to be a mug of warm cider. I took a sip. It turned out to be warm hard cider with a touch of cinnamon. A bit of a departure from the tea I first had in mind, but I had to admit it was a fine fit with the afternoon. I think this is the type of surprise that make the place a little special to me…Gerry seems to have a way with little things that create a mood.
Whether it was the particular title I had chosen, the cider, or something else it didn’t take long before I decided that the blowing leaves were far more interesting than my book. After 20 minutes or so, I gave up all pretense of reading and turned my attention to watching the leaves swirl in the corner of the courtyard and to pondering the occasional people walking by. There were groups of students hurrying past - animated with a thousand concurrent agendas and the forming and reforming of their pairings. There were young couples on bikes and skates – so serious at their play – and middle-aged couples trying to shepherd their kids down the sidewalk. An elderly couple held hands as they walked. A few lone figures passed by.
My attention drifted to the window glass itself. I noted how easily it separated the inside air from the swirling air only inches away – the same air yet so different. Maybe this was what put me in a detached frame of mind as my attention continued to drift toward the inside of the shop.
I don’t know why, I kept thinking about the couples of different ages. I thought how they seem just as bound by patterns as the blowing leaves. Each leaf moves on its own, but on the same general course as those in front and behind. A few blow out on their own or get caught in the eddies but eventually most get propelled upward in the whirl. On a path toward a common destination. Are couples just the same? I thought of the students. I thought of the young couples. I had been just as naïve and just as enthused when I was of their ages. And what about the old couple? Is it possible yet for me to really understand anything meaningful about them? …but more about that in a different tale. I was brooding about what happens when people from different points of the journey mix. What a complication our ages must be.
My attention was drawn to the handful of voices inside the shop. I wasn’t really listening to the words, just absorbing the meter of the sounds. Standing out from the noise were Jenny’s clear, animated measures. I listened to the sound as she stood talking about nothing with a stylish and good looking middle-aged man at a nearby table.
As I watched and listened I noted how beautiful she was... I mean, sure, one “always” notices one thing or another about someone. And sometimes, somewhere in the back of one’s mind you might take a tally or note a specific thing or two. Certainly I had noticed Jenny before - “that hair”, “that blouse”, whatever – but in an off hand way I reserve for someone well outside my own age range. This time I found myself really looking. Her hair. The blush of her cheeks. The way her skirt clung to her hips.
She really was gorgeous. Perhaps not in the sense of a fashion model – though she was definitely pretty. Deep blue eyes. Straight hair falling around her shoulders. Medium blonde with silver/gray streaks. She had strong, though not at all masculine, features. I felt voyeuristic as I let my eyes examine her the same way so many men do. I admired the particular shape of her breasts. Smaller and beautifully formed. Through her blouse one could see the suggestion of small nipples riding high on her breasts.
Hmmm…the cider was definitely affecting me...but still I stared.
The door opened and a young twenty-something man walked in. Upon hearing the jingle of the bell, Jenny glanced at door. It was only a moment, but her uncertainty, her vulnerability, showed in her unconscious quick self examination – wetting her lips, quickly pushing the hair from her face and almost imperceptibly straightening her posture and lifting her chest.
The moment passed. Just as quickly it was forgotten and she was continuing her jest with the man at the table.
She laughed.
Her lips opened in a deep laugh that quickly dissolved into a girlish self-conscious giggle. In that moment, her teeth flashed. Her head tipped slightly backward baring the smooth white skin of her neck. I watched as the blood rose to briefly flush her skin and fill her lips. The color rose and passed upward accenting and throwing into relief the smooth muscles of her neck; the sensual curves and recesses of her throat; the gentle line of her jaw. The blush passed upward to reside in her cheeks then quickly disappeared again.
I could read the shift in her attitude. She was no longer at work. She was talking to a man that interested her at some level – although I bet this never occurred to her. It was just innocent flirting. Flirting that I could tell would keep him awake tonight thinking about her.
