Outside the cafe, bees do their waggle dance as I get lost trying to follow their directions.
Next to my table, vapor escapes another cup of anxiety to play with the smoke of an old man’s cigarette. They swirl and dance, as if emulating the bees, as if trying to explain it to me. I still don’t get it. I never understand what I can not touch.
The pattern emerging from my own cup is never quite the same, but it looks so repetitive at each glance that I should have learned something by now. The way it rushes out, telling me not to drink more of this panic-inducing solution but I’m seduced by its obscure instant gratification.
I wish I could follow the lead, and flow, and vanish graciously like vapor, like this man at table thirteen who just left excusing himself.
But gravity holds me like I’m heavier than my body.
One more cup, one more failure. I sink into another coffee.
I’ll never understand him because I’ll never touch him.
The last cup today, the last cup at table thirteen.