Lens #604

For the second time that day I walked into a cafe. But this one was perched on the edge of a dirty canal, like a Heron, with one foot on the land, the other creating a shadow over the shiny oil surface that glistened with every colour swirling into and out of one another, where touching the surface dispersed them all. The tables were curved for bodies to get around but the bodies did not shift for no-one. I squeezed by holding in before breathing out into the designated seating. I had avoided the counter choosing to order nothing. I got out my sketchpad and drew the way it felt to scrape past the contours of the bodies in order to sit down. I never once looked up but drew and drew until the cafe emerged in the negative spaces. I looked out the window at the running water with its film of glassy oil. It broke up once the boat passed.

When I got up to go a man grasped my hand and squezed it. He had cold, smooth, tiny unused hands. He said I saw you doodling. I said is that a flute in that bag. He said no, its a battery operated twirling light stick and at night when I twirl it it reminds me of the woman who I`ve lost. Only the far ends light up. But I said perhaps the plastic itself was a light transmitter and although not direclty in contact with the battery the light eventually got dispersed along the length- transmitted even- even just by having the idea that that was possible. He`d tried to give me a demonstration in the cafe of the twirling stick but it was too light all around, and there were people, windows and furniture prohibiting the movement. We shook hands and I left considering on my way out whether to buy a chocolate from the counter, but reaching the door and re-entering the street before reaching a conclusion. The counter was already passed and I was back in the throng of a constant crowd, squezed along the side of the road like toothpaste on a barely registered smile.