“Do You Remember Passion?”
by alex rivas
Pushing open the door of the café on Gray Street, I really don’t know why I’ve come here; well I mean, I do know why but it’s easier to contemplate the rafters. They’re familiar, you know, but not too much - I can throw my head back in that corner chair in the far end of the room and get lost in the veins, the bumps and bruises of the wood.
I ordered another King Crimson tea this time, but honestly I don’t know if I can finish it – not because it tastes funny or anything, it’s just harder to drink it all without someone else borrowing the cup once in a while. So I’ll just leave it there I guess.
Took a look around, it makes me kinda sad – seems they’ve closed off our – I mean, the patio. I think it’s probably because the bench back there finally gave out, I guess Formica really isn’t as unbreakable as some people think – really you shouldn’t take that sort of thing for granted. And past that patio, I don’t even need to look outside to see, to remember everything that’s there – things that don’t change, or go away, that are truly concrete. There everything remains, stays still while the world panics through it.
On the wall there, “Do You Remember Passion?” – the favourite graffiti of the kids who haunt those backalleys, some other person begs the question.
do you remember,
do you remember?
I remember, that stain living right on the bricks, I took one of your senior pictures there, the words that just jump out to say – well, I don’t know what right they have to ask, anyway.
It’s not something that needs prompting, the thoughts that were already in my head. I could count the cracks in the sidewalk from where I am to that wall from memory, feeling two sets of footsteps in my mind but I can only see my own two feet, placing themselves one after the other; stumbling and remembering how you always said I was clumsy but honestly it was just hard to walk with someone’s hand around your waist pulling you this way and that. It’s not any easier, though,
27 cracks – that’s how many there are between the parking lot and here, our no my favourite little streetway – I guess it’s a short walk, and I get so distracted anyway.
I check to see nobody’s looking, as usual – for different reasons I guess but I mean I’m glad all the same that no one’s around. I trace the broken lines on the wall there lightly - as lightly as I might trace the lines on someone’s face.
It’s funny, I can see everything, right there – the memories, the photographs I took superimposed just the same on the chipping whitewash. Also funny, because the wall behind that whitewash wasn’t even white to begin with – it’s – too easy to see so much.
Also funny; you know, people stare just as much at one person wandering around alone as two?
But it’s still so very
different. Oh, and there –
somebody took your place in the parking lot.