WC - Dualities

I’m at a cafe. It’s bright, and sunny, and cold from the winter snow. It’s in an old New England brick building, and the windows don’t seem to seal well. I wonder how anyone managed to live here without modern heating.

They went bold with the decorations, in my opinion, but they got the calm elegance they wanted. A few brick walls, the remaining walls different shades of green. One wall has a minimalist flowering bush mural. The wooden tables and chairs are different colors, but uniform in their antiquity. It somehow works. This is a place trying to feel like a home, in particular, the home of an eccentric artist, I’d say. It doesn’t feel hipster college student, which I appreciate.

Oh, a rare moment: communal doting on a little girl playing with a banana. Apparently the girl just took it from a group of strangers when they offered, to the shock of her mother and maybe grandmother. All the women in the room seemed to melt into an amalgamation of a multi-tendril mother figure, talking about the quirks of toddlers. Even women my age, who I’m uncertain of if they even have children. Such conversation is not something I’m capable of.

A lot more couples today than usual. There’s been a revolving door of couples sitting at the only two seat table on the floor, by the mural. Less elderly folk because it’s the weekend, and the middle age have the opportunity to relax. A man in a Northface jacket, takes a moment to gaze out the window, at the old buildings dusted with snow.

A man and a woman showed up alone at different times, but I wonder if they would’ve gotten along. They both went for the same aesthetic in clothes, artsy hipster–oh, never mind. A man appeared in an ugly christmas sweater.

Another couple, I assume, are huddling over their phones in close proximity, as if for warmth. The closeness makes me think they’re doing something on their phones together, but the fact they’re not talking, and the cultural symbol of isolation involving people using their phones, makes me uncertain. I don’t think they’ve looked up once since I’ve started writing this tidbit about them; they seem completely engrossed.

The man who was gazing out the window approached me, “Excuse me, do you drive a little blue car?”

“Yes… actually, wait–the Chevy? That’s not my car.”

“There’s two dogs in the back seat, and it’s been here for thirty minutes. It’s seven degrees out.”

“Ah…” I remark, uncertain of what to say next, “... at least it’s not a baby.”

“Yeah…” he muttered quietly, turning back around to face his meal.

We both went silent, and I looked over at the Chevy. It was baby blue and old. I wondered how the man was able to see the dogs from the second story, because I couldn’t. Maybe he clocked them on his way in? I grab his attention, “Well… now I can’t stop thinking about them. I don’t know what to do either.”

“I’m thinking of going from table to table, asking people about the dogs.”

“Those people in the corner have been here for a while, as well as the people by the exit sign. Maybe it’s their car.”

He approached the amalgamation of mothers–what’s left of them, anyways–and started asking about the dogs. Predictably, it wasn’t their car. One of them gave a soft “Ohh...” when she heard the news.

He then approached the couple trying to absorb their phones into their body. I saw the flash of the phone man’s smile, trying to be polite, but masking clear irritation–maybe anger. The Northface parka returned to me, “It was their car. They said it’s warm enough for the dogs.” He paused, “Shame.”

I barely had time to start writing this again, a bit shaken from the sudden encounter, before he got my attention, “Look–they’re leaving.” We watched the two phones toss their trash and leave the room.

I return to this, and glance over at Northface man. He’s an older gentleman with grey stubble, and blue eyes. His chair faces outwards towards the room, back against the wall. I see he has a word document open–he’s in the middle of writing a paragraph. Is he doing the same thing as me?

My panini is cold at this point. I collect my things and prepare to head out. A final glance at Northface’s computer: large font, “Why something something something” and several bullets beneath. A journalist?

I wished him well on my way out.

fucking dogs. this piece of shit kneed me in the fucking balls over my pair of dogs. i don’t even fucking want them! let them die in the car! how about motherfucking PETA wannabe take the damn dogs?

look at this slob next to me, fucking face melting into her phone. her damn dogs. i want her out of my life, those are her dogs. stuck with this girl at white woman cafe.

i’ll go home.

can’t forget the strange smile

i see him in the corner, hands clenched. he doesn’t move, walls turn red. you can’t tell the wife’s blood from the background. her plate is her dog’s liver in equal, cubical bites. it blurs over.

a baby blue chevy. they were my age.

music must matter a lot when i write... the rest of the place wasn’t like that. the cold, white, sunlight was bright and silent. the green reminds me of plants coated in freezing rain. it was alive and somehow still. people floated around the room, delicate, like ghosts, happy. the girl with the banana doesn’t feel like it happened. connected once but it already unraveled and let go.

i will never meet northface again. under his tired skin i think there was a light on.

california gull splashing in the pool water
smooth funk with a man softly singing over speakers
a relentless, steady curtain of rain
one family braves the hot tub probably bevause now is the only time of weather where there aren't 20 toddlers trying to fit in there. their chatter mixes with the sound of rain
i keep dpuble checking the back of my shoulder in fear of getting rained on because of the cold wind blowing on them
masdive rocky waterfall decoration that hasn't been turned on in years
capitalism canvana sets they make you pay for even when no one is here. luckily this measely orange umbrella is making do
christmas tree decoration turns on and off to the rhythm of a neon “we’re open” sign
music has moved on to the same early 2010s radio “hits” that have been on loop for 15 years (corps decided the default) (my brain is forced to embody this trash)
palm tree debris is piled on top of a roof. a nearby palm tree looks like a poodle
the rain drops in the still pool water, flicking small droplets in an unending layering of circles, make it look like it’s glittering.
a group of young palm trees reach out of the ground like towering fingers
a fat stumpy palm tree sticks out like a thumb
roars in the distance, not thunder but the san diego airport
from what i thought was a mere kiddie pool rises steam. turns out there was a hot tub designated for kids this entire time

this family came by with a fully clothed kid. they stuffed his clothes full of towels and he’s wading knee deep at the edge of the pool. the father takes pictures while angrily yelling at his wife in a languave i don't understand. the kid tries splashing the father and he gets scolded. then, i think, because im not trying to stare closely, the father puts a towel over the kid’s head like a hood, and he starts taking pictures again. "take me home, country roads" plays over the speakers

sky bears cut the ground.

i look at this and see a world just out of shape.

nature tilts into concrete. nature sticks itself into human flesh like a calamity. this poolside would look ike death if the artifical could die

if the artifical could die. god lets them fight it out. that’s our doom.

some ideas are afraid to push further, but lets continue: Galaxy Z Flip7 Wide-angle lens 23mm Internal storage/DCIM/Camera.

When’s the last time you really looked at a picture?

When’s the last time you really looked at an imperfect morning?

Our plastic morning glories try to look like something they’re not by the chemically treated water we go to for rest and relaxation. I wonder if the property manager has a secret tablet with the real ratio of successful marriages vs divorce

it's only slightly bigger than my apartment, and the tinted windows put me on edge until i saw another person eating inside

she's clearly been here for a while; her possessions sprawled across the table, using another chair as a foot rest. she has a leather bound journal in front of her. a rare sight at a cafe; most people bring a laptop or paper instead of parchment. hair tied up in a bun, the heels,the combination looks like she should be at work but isn’t. lunch break?

the cafe is dimly lit, and a table is covered in legal pads. while the tables look regularly wiped down, i can't say the same for the rest of the place. you can see the fingerprints on the pictures when the sun hits them at the right angle. a heart around J + S is smudged into a window.

it’s a sloppy atmosphere where the employees and owners throw things wherever they need to go to maximize their tiny space. i don't this this hurts their impression. this is a cafe that feels lived in, and doesn't need to prove itself.

we’ll see how the food is.

…

the burger was okay. meat a bit tasteless, no seasoning. but the patty was pou ded thing. i absolutely hate it when they leave it thick so you have to contort your face to take a bit out of it.

the fries were impressive. slightly smoky, but not overbearing. T could tell me if it was liquid smoke or real, if he was here.

yes, this place has been around for a while. the cashier knows the regulars, the regulars know the secret menu. the cashier also knows the names of every business on the street and in the high rises. it becomes clear to me that their main business is catering, and my dine in dish is the sideshow.

the cashier is an older loud and foul mouthed woman. silver hair in a messy bun, a boston accent that fills the room. zebra crocs and reindeer antlers. im immediately in love with her.

the kitchen has appliances that have been repurposed into surface area to store bread. a painting of a colorful young woman holding a pie looks too sunny for the dim interior. i wouldn't be surprised if the painting was given to them.

the cashier surveys the customers for their favorite item.

the shape and color was like the trail a snake leaves in the sand. yes, maybe there was something malicious and powerful about her, or maybe she wanted to appear it. that’s the only reason why you wear stilletos.

but the way her posture was in that chair, open, expansive, betrays her desired impression.

maybe she was happy. the cafe took her and her costume in, with its scattered stacks of legal pads. its open contemplation among the kitchen staff about how to prepare for the night’s catering.

the dusty velvet red stage curtain at the front, and smudged photos. someone etched J + S in a heart in the window, and the cafe promised it will see another occurence. customers ordered from the secret menu. an old woman in glittering reindeer antlers flitted around singing a carol of high rise businesses.

the food was alright

well, we’re here in market basket, attempting to people watch. which is a bad idea today, because it's the first snow of the season.

someone already ran over the street sign outside my apartment complex. my town was bamboozled by the lack of snow last night, so people twiddled their thumbs instead of salting the road.

i may be a hazard on the road because of this; if i turn too hard i start sliding.

but it's fiiiiiiiine.

yanno, watching the check out line, it seens people in market basket are generally happy. there’s inside jokes among the employees floating along the ceiling. the retirees take their time and meander. one employee is a chatty old woman that interacts with every person that walks through the check out–which is valuable information to me, because now i know which check out lane to avoid.

just because mareket basket is full of whimsy doesn't mean i am.

the more dolled up a woman, the more they maneuver like homing missles through the aisles and crowds. there's an irony in how much effort they put in their appearance for the world and how little they notice the world around them. living in a sleep-power walk.

some characters: two separate instances of men with mullets, a social neckbeard, the only two teenagers in my home town walking in with just t-shirts, as they do. “im built different” a girl smiling at her phone. a older man in a velvet tan trench coat and a dangly white earring

an older man whose fedora i snickered at mentally, but whose presence eventually put me in the horny time out corner. lean, 50s or 60s, a black leather jacket and timbs. the dark corner he’s been sitting in, a blue grey light cast on him from the window and heavy snow. he looks frustrated. the thumb swipes upwards on his phone.

doom-scrolling in the grocery store, my love?

ive been trying to keep him in my peripherals, i promise.

beautiful women who walk really fast. ... yeah ok there's a lot of beautiful women, you can see that. walking fast is also something you see. (he said, "something you can't directly see", dumbass) but some people are extremely pointy--holding themselves in an aesthetic architecture, shooting through the room like a homing missle--while everyone else meanders. at my grocery store, it's only women my age who carry themselves like this. were homing missles a thing before cameras and internet?

(this is not important right now)

there was a guy, in the grocery store. they contain those.

i laughed at him on the inside because he was wearing a fedora, but gave him the better of the doubt because he looked like he was in his fifties or sixties. i shouldn’t have done that, because afterwards i couldn’t stop checking him out in my peripherals. it’s not my fault; he had a hat on. that’s like, throwing a bone across my vision. bone… perfect way to describe him. the fedora, the grey blue light from the snowfield flickering onto his leather jacket. a maiden floats through the window in snowfall, to dance with the long, dark shadows of the grocery store cafe. that was the phenomenon playing about on his personage. it wasn’t my fault.

men: all you need is some sick mood lighting.

winter hit my town as a literal wet blanket. no one was ready. they didn’t plow, and they didn’t salt the road. you know the sound you hear when you drop a wet towel on the floor? that’s what the entrance to my apartment complex looked like. a blue [TYPICAL LARGE OVAL CAR MODEL HERE] already ran into the street sign. a woman standing outside her car–im assuming she’s the one who hit it–could easily replace it by just continuing to stand there.

there was one woman in market basket, my age, much more gorgeous than i am, that looked happy to be there. her face beamed at her phone screen as she walked by. her smile was the curve of a swan boat, i’d like to think. but it also could’ve been furry porn.

the older generations carried more smiles and warmth. they drifted around the store like leaves in a river. a old lady jutted out of this river, determined to catch every person in the check out line as she bagged their items.