post 2 : copenhagen

There is a café in my head. I wrote about it in a story. It has books that are older than me; they line the walls and they climb the walls. There are books that are ripped at the seam from overuse; overlove. There are long windows that reach near for ceiling with curtains of velvet red. The chairs are each one individual; wood and leather with carefully crafted arms, some striped and soft with backs that stretch higher than your head. Some are flowered and so old they are no longer out of fashion. The floor is matte wood and partially covered with rugs that curl up at the edge; age, mostly. Antique chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; most bulbs no longer work. There are candle holders on each windowsill, but not a candle to be seen. The light is dim; the coffee is good and the people, beautiful.

There are university students with glasses too big, students with glasses too big that fit perfectly; acquiring knowledge, acquiring an understanding. There is a table of ladies who have left their husbands at home. They wear their hair in grey bobs and pin the sides back with clips as pretty as their bright faces. One wanders around with bare feet and a summer dress. One opens the window to let a butterfly fly out.

I come here to write.  I write here and the man at the window works. I write and we pretend not to notice each other. He works and we pretend not to look at each other. The man near the window is delicious and rare. When I stop to think he stops to think and we look up and we look back down. We hide smiles in our hands. We feign concentration. We relive childhood and blush.

It is late and I leave. He sits next to the window and me the books the next day and the same; he works and I write. I write and he works and we pretend not to look at each other. It is late and he is leaving but just as he does there is an almost smile that suggests; tomorrow?