Old eatery

In the old eatery

 deficient, a pedestrian with my agony intact, witnessing you carrying a ton on your back; we took a turning with assurance on the narrow dark street after the second crossing, straight into the old eatery. The head waiter, a lean man wearing a thin, transparent paper with a grey crown of hair around his distressed face, welcomed us. The blue man requested to sit near the big window, where the comfortable couch was. I looked around the simple place for a while, filling my eyes with white walls, the most unadorned tables, and fluorescent tubes hanging from the plain, bare ceiling, before I sat beside you and hugged you from the left. I told you that things were going to be okay. Still, you didn’t seem to care, the fluorescent light stagnant and raw on the tired faces of the customers,  faces highly washed out with restless eyes scanning the neighboring tables of lonely people with their heads dived into the plate swallowing the soup - their wide comical lips carrying that normative sadness and stupidity, I let my body get comfortable in there in that safety of their presence reassuring me that things are really bad keeping supportive yet muffled company in my own foredoomed exigent circumstances. Their lips sucking their hot soup, and with terrified, uncomfortable eyes looking around, I held you in my arms, half-dead, listening to you, slightly breathing, lured into a bitter smile drawn permanently on your pale face, the ironic wisdom hanging around your commune intensifying my questions. I drew circles with my hand on the paper tablecloth relentlessly, looking down, letting my mind get lost into the blue printed letters on purpose, as I didn’t want to catch your conversation with the blue man. The one that snorts unawarely while he thinks while he eats, the one that bursts into laughter against me, showing his asinine smile in front of my austere glance that stays undisturbed. But I don’t believe in it too much; it’s my most successful act: remaining silent while saying a lot. I keep a threat hanging over my enemy. Overcharged by that moment of having you losing part of your creedy soul again, getting plucked by the sore energy you couldn’t fight back coercively, I warmly squeeze your tender hand as if I was trying to pull you back. As you delivered an answer, you sipped water from the plain glass. In that severe naked white space waiting to be served the essential dishes of the local cuisine, we held each other in the faint moment, drowning slowly into the blur of that evening, one of the many I accompany you, constantly worried and anxious, with your best friend and your little sister pulling your hand and asking for attention. Your mind senses my presence safely, walking next to you on the left side, sneaking glances at you now and then, holding a bottle as if having something to hold on to while I pretend I’m invisible. Our steps seem vengeful and impatient. You let a scream at your little sister, and I don’t need to tell you that I’m there as a witness and a companion with my frozen breath touching your left cheek, your permanent discontent mixed with my antisocial tendencies, welcoming the passers-by. Without warning, you addressed me and said you got tired of all the escapades, but won’t open your heart to me again like you used to.