Small Worlds

There are hints of freshly mown grass when rain skips across framed glimpses into the big, sticky web of small worlds. In one such fishbowl lives many chattering apes, from nine ‘till nine except on Monday’s when the familiar aroma of those strange brown beans only lingers. The view is always best from the corner booth, just before the sun’s kiss goodnight. There’s the Friday night family feast and the lost man’s lonely drink. I often wonder what he’s thinking as he stares down the whiskey-filled barrel; his very own game of Russian roulette. There are the morning regulars, of course. The bees buzzing in their black and navy suits, lining up for their daily dose of concentrated caffeine.

But it’s when there are hints of freshly mown grass and the rain drenches their suits and skirts and caps and cardigans that the most unlikely of worlds converge. They find refuge from the rain —or is it from their bills and their battles, their worries or their wives— and enter with a motivational jingle. Some wander in alone, resolutely ordering a meal for two. Others arrive together, old friends wiling away the night, pretending to wait for the rain to stop …I know a waitress that listens to Frank Sinatra. She poured extra good coffee for the stranger she met tonight.*

There’s someone else too. Often by the fireplace, almost always in the corner booth. If you looked closely, you’d know they never leave. With a coffee rarely touched and a book rarely read, we’re living in our own small world but taking a backseat in yours.

– Charlie B.

*a rather obscure reference to Frank Sinatra’s song ‘Strangers in the Night’.

Featured image is the painting Nighthawks (1942) by Edward Hopper (no kidding)