Serendipity

“Will you still touch me when I would not care about being touched?”

It was a windy morning near the Atlantic waterfront. Seagulls had found a bag of French fries floating near the docks and were dancing their aerial farandoles.  Sailboats were predictably compressing themselves against the docks and providing the background rhythm to the dance.  The morning coffee was already cold but I did not feel like making another pot.

“I do not know.  Maybe by then all I would fancy doing is to read books in bed.  Even better, read them on an LCD screen.”

“Would you sleep in any other bed if the pillow was firm enough?”

By now, the sky was turning gray as the morning pink and dust had almost vanished.  A cold November morning with its horizon lost beyond the last building I could see from the balcony.

“Not only firm enough, but accommodating enough so I could prop myself against the headboard to read my book.”

“And what kind of book would you read?”

Strange question – how would I know now about the books I hope to read when all I want to do in bed is read a book?

“Probably books I once read but did not care for.  Or books I did not read because I thought I would not like.  I would follow Henry Miller’s advice about being selective in reading rather than voracious.”

One seagull dropped half of a French fry in mid-air and two others planed to catch the tender morsel before it hit water.  And all these Jonathans seemed to be laughing out-loud about the dance and game.

“Will you be wearing heavy cotton pajamas? And even a night cap on very cold nights?”

I took a sip of the cold coffee which surprisingly tasted good.  I had reached the last milliliter of the morning brew and got coffee grinds on my tongue.  I played with them for a while, chewing them slightly to uncover the taste that boiling water had been unable to liberate.

“It is my nose that gets cold on frigid nights.”

“So, you may be wearing a mask?  How lovely will that be when the time comes for you to touch only the LCD screen of an electronic book in bed, wearing a blue mask!  Or maybe it will be rainbow colored like your poetry?”

My writings were never of those colors although I fancy thinking that they do arc above the daily silliness of small things. Or because of them. And that they appear after a storm, a passing inner storm most of the time.

The seagulls were gone by now.  The sky was unremarkable and the day was a simple one already. I decided to make more coffee, shave, take a warm shower, and go to work.  Or back to bed and read a book.

November 24, 2010
©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013