coffeeshop minor.
a ballet ensues. trumpetting in the orchestra pit as we all crescendo for the evening. as violins tremble, night approaches, and he gets up for more coffee.
absent from the table, he can't see her turn the paper he was scribbling on to see the traces his ink left. he doesn't see that flippant smile that becomes her lips as her eyes fall onto certain words, turns of the pen.
pianos blink and clank, old and distant and almost forgotten. the pedals creek beneath the barefeet of a smallish man hired just for the occasion. he's worn in by this instrument. he's taken by the intricacies of movement.
the mug, steaming between his palms, finds a home on the scratched table, spilling licks of creamed coffee over college ruled paper.
he leaves in search of napkins.
she quickly returns to reading the paper across from her, placing it back to its original position before he rounds the corner.
her fingers work, turning and seranading a small piece of hair by her temple, as she looks to the book she's holding. her eyes dance between him and bound pages.
sotto voce, humming cries fill the solid and tepid air. singers commence. following their diaphragm's distinguished sign language. wide open mouths giving such somber noise for seconds upon seconds until their breath is defeated. how they build so victoriously in the rise of familiar conversation, and softer and softer until small woodwinds cry from the dark corners of the table.
she turns her face down and away. he picks up his pen.
for a moment, they are peaceful in forgetting each other, wrapped in sounds they are not making.
