Pulse

There are perfect swirls of creamy white balanced tentatively on an temperate ocean of rich, espresso brown, lifted into a delicate peak and dusted with chocolate shavings.

It is my own personal haven grasped between my cold fingers. Outside the snow is blowing fiercely, the snowflakes so large they are nearly round.

Inside the coffee shop it is almost like I am enveloped in a silky cocoon, protected from the world around me, yet still a part of it. There is a tangible atmosphere to the coffee shop, one of relaxation, a myriad of people, smells, sights- for some people it’s all business.

I sit in my particular corner, it is a very peculiar corner, one with personality. There are newspapers discarded around me, a scribble on the table with the initials J.B. and R.J. enveloped in a hastily sketched heart which ha been traced over by dirty fingernails and a fork. My corner is snuggled away buried on the far side of the room where I can see both the door adjacent to me and the ground dusted lightly with snowflakes, and the counter where everything happens.

From here, I can see everything. I can see snapshots into each person’s life like a viewfinder, but I can see more. I can see the things between the walls of each person’s life, the things that connect us all.

Just now for instance a man is walking into the coffee shop. In one fleeting glance I know exactly what he is going to order. He bustles to the counter, eyes vacant and unseeing, staring ahead, his mind turned inwards, consumed with his on life. He orders a coffee- black the way he likes it. He takes one bitter sip and drinks it quickly while he leaves because he is in a rush. He has no time. There is never enough time.

As if I am tuning my radio to different stations I listen in on different conversations, some becoming clearer than others as I turn my head and scan the room. There are three old ladies in the center of the room, and they are chatting amiably about doily patterns and trading recipes for Italian Wedding Soup. A few young girls are staring at them scornfully, discussing instead the latest gossip. It is almost like a war between them, one generation pitted against the other. You can see the disgust in all of their faces. They just don’t understand.

But I do. I can see the things that no one else can, the things that join us all together. It is as though it is something tangible, like a ribbon joining each person together. It is alive, twisting and turning, a myriad of different colours. It is like a pulse, beating through us all.