Brick Kitchen
firda
Across that street, over than snow bank, inside that door. There I’ll share a table with a woman named Svetlana, whose accent is so liquid I’ll have to listen with a spoon. We’ll drink sweet thick Turkish coffee and our conversation will skip across the table like flat stones on still water.
Or maybe I’ll cross the street and go inside where I’ll meet an old veteran of the Korean War, a man who still wears a military crew-cut and drinks his American coffee black. He’ll dismiss the snow piled outside with a shrug and tell me this is nothing compared to the cutting cold and bitter snows of the Chosin Reservoir back in 1950. And he’ll get that look…the one that means part of him will never leave those hills…so I’ll excuse myself and quietly find another table.
Or maybe I’ll go inside and just sit by myself. Maybe I’ll sit quiety and look out the window. People will hurry by, heads down and hats pulled low, cloaked in the steam of their own breath. I’ll look back across the street to where I’m standing now and see a woman slow down. She’ll pause for a moment without knowing why. She’ll draw out a camera and aim it at the window. I wonder if she’d be able to see me inside, smiling. I wonder if she’d wonder who I am.
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