The Cafe’ New Orleans.

The Cafรฉ New Orleans

May, 1996

It was the kind of morning that I love, the sky, a mix of cold greys and steely blues, a chill in the air and the smell of rain. I was sitting at the counter reading a newspaper, one of the last ones still in publication. I was waiting for you, without a worry of my own in the world. Glancing out the windows now and then, I knew that the light, the overcast colors and the coolness, would last all day.

ย ย ย ย ย  The cafรฉ was on the corner of One Hundred and Twelfth Street and Chapel Avenue. The morning hustle of the city in full swing. I caught sight of you making your way around the intersection at the corners. There was no mistaking your easy stride. I could not take my eyes off you, your hands cupped at your mouth, seeking the warmth of your own breath, a package wrapped in plain, brown, paper, tucked under your arm. I couldnโ€™t help smiling. You looked up and smiled back at me in that crooked, cock-eyed way of yours. You held my gaze until you were inside the cafรฉ.

ย ย ย ย ย ย  We exchanged a quick embrace before taking up residence in a window booth. The waitress took our breakfast order. You unwrapped the package. It was a book, hardbound, white cover, the title, The Knights of Stolen Roses embossed in red. We were giddy, like little kids with a secret too good to keep, as we flipped through the pages recalling the moments that went into them.

ย ย ย ย ย  I was so in love with love you, so happy thereโ€ฆ

ย ย ย ย  โ€ฆThen I was pulling back from it, like a long shot in a movie, I was watching myself with you there, so happy, at The Cafรฉ New Orleans, somewhere, in my dreams.

 

ย 

 



Categories: a moment, prose, Red Line Wine

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