The cafe above the bookshop. Quiet. Only a little radio playing, like an ending scene in a film noir. Only it's well lighted, and there are little plastic flowers on the ebony tables with chairs that have green cushions. Windows are closed to keep out the chill. Baby highchair is as white as the sugar cups. People come and sit from browsing the bookshelves, and it's only a matter of time before they leave again. I don't order anything here; last time they gave me a free cup of tea for coming on the day of the experimental cafe's opening. Cosy. Traditional. Harmless to the economy. Kettle steaming. Now I will eat my own food.
Sugar cube. Sugar cube. Sugar cube city. Raggedy Ann cafe stop.
It's so warm, so the coat comes off. The windows are huge - looks over the whole parking lot - on the second floor. Snuggled in a comfy square of a chair, here I am in this immortal cinema cafe. My heart aches for my friend, who is usually here with me. She would chatter and smile on beside quiet, mousy old me. There is always enough space for both of us, but not time; no, the same cannot be said there. But in tangent, space and time should wait for no friendship. It occupies limitless space and is timeless.
Cinemas are very brown, black and grey, aren't they? Sun's gone down...
Crackly thunder and trees in the dark, dark woods,
Like creaking and cobwebs in an old, old house.
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