Thunder In Your Words.
I look for sincerity in your words as you speak softly, assuring me I failed myself. In this old café which sells the best coffee, I don’t feel the best, and wish to reset my life and go back to the days when worries were on someone else’s mind. They’re on my mind, settling there like a pool of blood. I can’t forget them, scorch them with fires, or dislodge them. You sit, but you’d suit a pedestal, one colossal, touching the sky. Arrogance suits you too, as your obnoxious personality forces me to face the ground. In this café, in front of many faces, I weep into the menu, and then look up at you.
You stir the coffee relentlessly; the swirl looks like a whirlpool where I could end my days on earth. It could consume me, and take me on a ride before I hit my demise, a rollercoaster ride through snapshots of misery. This misery has been created by my failed 20s. In your eyes, I should have been someone of power, a catalyst breaking boundaries, storming through cities spreading my optimism. But I’m here, sitting on tattered material, in a booth where many conservations have taken place, good and bad.
My coffee is cold, frozen to its core. My cluttered mind tries to assemble a cohesive story to tell you. Every word I try to meld crashes in my mouth before I can blurt them out. Words should be my weapon, but they’re succumbing to blank expressions. I look at my watch; the time seems to be slow today, and this engagement seems to be in slow motion. Your eyelids take time to open and shut, the bangle on your wrist clatters onto the table.
I’m awake to the clatter, looking straight into your disappointed eyes. You feel betrayed, beaten down, and I can’t mend these broken ties. I’ll collapse, I’ll grovel, tinker with your emotions, but I feel we’re lost in the static noise played out by the radio. You stand like a titan, struck by emptiness, misguided like me but a success story in your bubble. The expensive outfit you’re wearing costs more than my world, those shoes you wear shine more than diamonds, your composure is professional, and the lipstick strengthens your lips so when you kiss your husband at night, he feels them heavy on his cheek.
The café empties, and we’re the only ones left. No more prying eyes, no more ears to hear a dispute that is gaining volume. You’re now in your element, speaking above me, hurling words that sting me, offering nothing but a hazardous diction. Seeking calm isn’t practical, as the monster in you appears, feeding on my anxiety.
‘’You should have listened to me, but no, you went your own way, chose the wrong direction’’
The coffee has changed color, the milk has curdled, the ambience has altered, and this brightly lit café becomes a space damaged by your demanding vocal performance. Over behind the counter, the staff cringe and look on, bemused by the anger shown.
‘’Look at me’’
I don’t look, I can’t look. I feel humiliated by your abrupt behavior. The café nears closing time, and the lightning strikes the pavements outside, with thunder in the background, the thunder in your words louder. You then throw money at me and tell me to pay the bill. I stand up and move away from you, like everyone else has done over the years, and I don’t blame them, as they were right to disband from your ignorance. Years and years of strain, time and time again, you utter words, you mutter under the breath that god gave you. My childhood had no highlights, no structure, or significance.
So I pay the bill, brush off your existence, and leave.