Cafe Society

Long evening of repositioning. Everything feels inhuman to me : unneccessary, unbeautiful, damaging. I draw back: and this time, the glass of Leffe in front me beckons me back into a world where there are pedestrians & CEO's & artists all anxious to know other people.

I'm at a cafe pretending to read. A buff, handsome East-Coaster Jew in a hip skull cap reaches over in a laugh to carress the long hair of the leggy blonde in tight black embroidered pants across the table from him. There's a moment of true discomfort, and they both relax against their seats, until he launches into another intellectual front. He talks with his hands and eyes. He's fascinating. He started the rave movement, investing $50, $80,000 at a time, full page ads, ruining the raves, while the mixers and the djs begged him to gp away. He used to have money then but doesn't now. She crosses her arms and leans back and then in. I see that she is eight years younger than he is as she stares back into the warmth of the cafe. I am so glad I'm not with either of them.

Somewhere in between the foreground where I'm writing and the background where this is happening the waiter breaks a glass while cleaning the table. It lies in shards in between us. I almost feel responsible.