March 14, 2008
It�s funny how you�re always on the tip of my tongue�Like a story I never got around to finishing.
I entertain the pieces that I had left out or only just remembered as though they were not full of redundancy. There�s always another page which I can hold up to the light and inspect with alacrity.
I cannot sit in that restaurant now without thinking about the space we took up years ago. The bulk of our helmets and riding jackets and gloves taking up enough room for two more people while servers bustled by hoping to clear another table for the patrons waiting by the door. We did not mind them. We simply sipped our coffee and cappuccino and watched the dew resting on the seats of our bikes, eager for the sun to lift the fog off the morning.
I know our table and see our expressions reflected in the glass.
It�s late at night and I�m last person in the place. The employees are running the vacuums, the busboys are clearing the tables, the waitresses are enjoying a cup of soup and a cigarette and I�m hardly more than a picture on the wall � they know I�m there but they do not address me. My legs sprawled out upon the cushions of the booth, my fingers busily working to capture the moment, my distant eyes scanning the past for the sound of your laughter.
It�s funny how many places I can recall � the places we only visited once as though we were always so careful to cover our tracks. Hopping around like we might get bored if we returned. Been there, done that� Let�s try something new.
We must have left our mark about the map. If we did nothing else we certainly kept it real. Leaving nothing to chance by making the magic happen at the fall of our feet.
Isn�t it funny, then, that I should remain so still, caught up with thoughts of how we skipped about the world? Never finishing one chapter before we started a new one. Wondering what�s on the next page before ending that paragraph. Noting where we needed to be before deciding where we were.
Like a story we never got around to finishing.