erlebnisse
“As a teacher I realize that what one learns in school doesn’t serve for very much at all, that the only thing one can really learn is self-understanding, and this is something that can’t be taught.”
The Carrot Ginger Cake.
The man sat sideways in his chair. Legs draped loosely over one side. The metal had been cold and wet. He’d used a dark cloth he borrowed from the cafe to wipe it down before sitting. There was always time for a cigarette before work, even if he was behind schedule.
People made space for the man owing to his appearance.
He was often mistaken for Scandinavian. He had long dark hair and light blue eyes; the contrast was striking. However, there was nothing exotic in his blood. His mother had been melancholic, and he had inherited her brooding lips and dark eyelashes.
His father was a painter and always in a terrible disposition. He often stayed in the wide shed in the backyard, where there was little furniture and plenty of space to slash the air with a brush. He was always painting with yellow.
The man perched himself in the small crack of sunlight that flirted from the clouds. The baristas, two young women with septum rings and pastel nail polish, always brought him his drink and a bite to eat. One barista prepared his espresso, while the other selected the freshest baked good. They often quarreled over who would serve the man and kept to a strict rotation.
They each looked forward to his visit in the late afternoon before he walked to the shipyards. His schedule was predictable, rhythmic, and precise, though he was not.
He lacked all definition yet demanded it from those around him.
A fussy character, his nails were always manicured- hands and feet- and he shaved every morning with a small razor that clipped the grey hairs. He rubbed his body with almond oil and visited a Reiki therapist each month to clear the blockages in his body. The relationship was not sexual though it could have been.
Delayed gratification was more arousing than the action, and with age, the man put more off than he performed.
Squirrels hopped from tree to tree and the little birds flicked their wings from cobblestone to bench, seeking crumbs. Locals ambled by with their arms slung around each other's shoulders. Youth cruised past on skateboards and bikes. Autumn smelled of the mountains and rotting leaves; the Tuesday farmers market bearing its harvest of apples and squash.
While the man smoked, the women set the drink on a small pink saucer with gold trim. The baker had made a moist carrot cake with cream cheese icing that morning and the younger barista cut a thick slice and plated it with a small silver fork. She dusted the cake with a bit of cinnamon and garnished it with a few raisins, orange slices, and crystallized ginger.
The barista walked carefully with the coffee and cake in each hand, her platforms making small squeaks on the linoleum and she moved to the door. Walking up to the man, she placed the plates on the small metal stool at his side, where one of the baristas had placed a glass of water and a small ashtray. The man smiled and nodded; they met eyes momentarily. He looked away first, bowing his head to the earth. The baristas assumed the gesture was gratitude and returned the nod silently before walking away.
A routine that took less than sixty seconds and eternity for the heart to slow down.
The young barista sauntered back to the cafe and burst through the door- her heart throbbing in her ribcage. He was so beautiful, so contained. So methodical and pensive.
The women desired him. His light eyes, smooth skin, the richness of his laugh, and hair that fell to his shoulders in loose curls. He always took his time with his smoke and coffee. He never rushed. He rarely spoke. Safe behind the counter, the women would smile at each other and exchange words about the man's appearance.
‘He smells marvelous today!’
‘I just want to run my hands through his hair.’
Twittering like the birds in the rafters, the women would mark the man's status outside between bursts of customers.
The man was irritated by the baked treat served. He found carrot cake immediately displacing. Knowing he was being watched from all corners, not consuming the gift would be too much of an affront. It would cause questions and a ripple he did not want.
What to do with the cake became his obsession as he sipped the espresso slower than usual and felt the thunder of rage in his body. One sip. Set the cup down. Lean back. Relight the spliff. Pause. Repeat.
When his cup was empty, the man picked up the fork and set the plate bearing the cake on his lap. Using one edge of the fork, he scraped the icing off the three sides of the treat. He piled the frosting on the side of the plate with the raisins and candied ginger. Still, with the edge of the fork, he cut the loaf into three fingers and used his left hand to pick up the slices and pop them in his mouth. When he was done, he brushed the crumbs from his lap and set the lttle plate with the large mound of frosting on the metal stool.
Rising to leave, he turned his face up to catch the last bit of sunlight, enjoying the warmth on his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw the gaze of the young woman who had served him the decorous treat through the cafe window. A bit startled the man composed himself as he stared back into the wide brown eyes of the young woman who was just seeing him for the first time.
Photo source.
