The voices of Saturday afternoon linger
in the walls, reverberating off a red concrete floor,
cleverly poured in a terra-cotta tile grid, and
scored with fine lines of charcoal-gray, faux grout.
The café tables, pushed and shoved on Saturday
into unfamiliar groupings, are back
in their customary spots, each with
two or four unburdened chairs at rest below.
Wednesday's voices--tender, serious,
subdued--hang easy on the air.
"This space is not mine," they seem to
say, "but I will share it with you."
Nearby, a petite elderly couple share
a table for two. (He: espresso and
an owlish hooked nose; she: cappuccino
with a straw, her sneakered toes
barely touching the floor.) Both
husband and wife have attained
an equal degree of baldness. They take turns
reading aloud from a shiny British magazine,
exclaiming--just a tad too loudly--over
familiar names and places, drawing chuckles
and indulgent smiles from the scant
handful of students, shoppers, and
writers scattered about the room.
(c) 2014, by Hannah Six