Not quite, not here, not now July 13, 2013Posted by Mark Folse in cryptic envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Fairgrinds Coffeehouse
The twitchy flicker of Facebook and G Mail visible over your shoulder give the lie to the technical book open on the coffee shop table, my own inevitable distraction by the Doric perfection of a woman’s neck with her hair put up reflected by your MacBook. I should follow the glances over your shoulder to your table with some remark about Facebook versus textbook but somewhere on the path between distraction and commitment, infatuation and an evenings obligations my feet stray instead to the counter for a refill, victim to my clumsiness with introductions.
I’ve moved out of the sun and can no longer see your screen, cannot tell if holding your highlighter aloft signals concentration or surrender, is a caution or an invitation. I am now a quadrant beyond a glance, for all intents invisible, nose down typing anyway, turning my citron green tea fantasy into words, without the sketching artist’s excuse to stare, the escalation of glances that lead toward your empty chair.