See & Read: 4/23/2015

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As I turned the corner to get my morning java fix, I saw a well dressed man of a certain age heading in my direction. Pressed jeans, collared shirt, and a clean pair of brown leather shoes–no scuffs. He and I both slowed seeing our shared destination, and I deferred to him as he led us through the door. He scooped up the last remaining table for two, and I strode straight into the small but substantial line, he to follow up behind me in a few.

I ordered my latte strong (to go), and he ordered his with small talk (to stay). It mattered not that the barista was in no mood; This Man of a certain age was here to talk, and talk he would. I stood aside and quietly waited for my morning salvation. He stood square in front of the sullen barista, and continued on with his talk.

“Pretty busy today, huh?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh,” says the man, with a gentle look down at the shuffle of his feet. “I guess I”m later than usual.”

[clears throat] “Did you walk here?”

“Yep. I sure did,” The Man said with eagerness. “I sure did walk here.”

“You on your way to work?”

“Me? Oh, no no. I don’t work. I’m just a caretaker for one cat. Just one cat and a garden. And a car. I take care of a cat, a garden, and a car.”

“Oh, ok.”

Silence and another look to the ground to see what his feet would do, and there was nothing more. The Man took his latte for here and sat by himself over there. No paper, no book. Nothing to distract him from the company that hadn’t come. Just another man who takes care of a cat, a car, and a garden sitting in a coffee shop in San Francisco.

Just one person waiting at a table for two.

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See & Read: 1/21/2015

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So love-starved that a look is all it takes for lust to leap up from its lair and be a presence once again–the dust falling in sheets from its dormancy.

A glance falling from that face, with eyes inspecting downward: eyelashes to lips, clavicle to shoulder tip, and down into desire.

One touch, that taste, these memories to keep through our hibernation–through the times when the No One and the Nothing are near, not even the outline of a thought.

Daily Dose: The Bones of J.R. Jones, “Hearts Racing”

That time we found our kinfolk, running down a meadow still soft with folded grass as the daisies chained themselves into a crown.

That time we snapped our fingers, and they didn’t make a sound but the sight of the attempt was something so much more profound.

That time when life was simple, and things were sorted out in kind.

When time was just a concept that we paid no mind.