Rain. A winter tonic, a respite from the ice. I sit in the coffee shop and watch the glossed black night beyond the window. It's pleasant. Exceedingly. Swingy jazz issues from overhead speakers; a lady with horse-wild hair and debonair knits sits with her beau in the corner; everything emanates easy-come ambiance. At any moment I half expect a P.I.--sandstone trench; East Coast accent--to idle in and start interrogating the barristas. I want to protract this fiction longer than the open-hours will allow. I want to stop the clock and rummage around in make-believe corners. Slow down, glassed sands, slow down! Pause long enough for a lass to build some castles on you!
The rain grants refuge from the winter, but has rendered me an exile from my four walls. It has seeped in under the door and soddened the carpet, which the in-laws have since wrested from the floorboards and wontoned over upon itself, an obstreperous watchguard of fans stationed all about lest the fibers think about returning to their supine state. The place smells of damp and has no seating provisions, the chairs all being displaced to accommodate the newly yogic floor-mattings. I wish I didn't have to leave this table, this trumpet drawling, this cup of tartly steaming tea. I wish gadfly time was not so persistently biting at my ankles. Where's the veil as would protect from that gnat? Where's the break in the glass?
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