Rueful Cafe

Fiction, Pulpit

A story I’m working on. For now it can be flash fiction.

 

Nightime on the cold cobbled rue de gogh
Drinking coffee beneath cauliflower stars
As old lovers wander by in death shawls
Looking for a funeral. The terrace is stained
With veins of frost, but sitting in a scarf
And a cafetiere somehow blood circulates.
She’s late. It rings with each bulbous spasm
Of the accordion, alongside more tuneful
Swellings and fingerings. Cold cobbles
Shine moist with the starlight and wet
Eyeglasses that hide bitten eyes. Some
Candleflame joins the table, dancing
With the breeze and blowing blue on rusted
Joints – the wick spine’s weaknesses.
Then even as a fiddle begins a slow
Melody the light shines brighter and burns
Into a woman.

“Cold are you? Sorry I’m
Late.”

“Mais bien sur and do I pour you
A coffee or shall we go gently into the
Evening?”

“Coffee. Inside.”

Where the music
Is dulled like the light around the sun
Is dulled and those sunken melodies take
On a romance with the flirting clouds
Of breath, mingling in the dim din,
Steaming lenses.

“Well, this is nice – you always
Had an eye for cafes.”

Smiling woman.

“I’ll
Have to come to the shop tomorrow. I need
Something blue.”

“Blue?”

Sullen man.

“Are you
Getting married or something?”

“Of course.”

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