Cappuccino

by

E. S., Shrewsbury, MA

The steam rises like mist off our cappuccino cups, curling into rings of discussion. Beauty, Truth, Love circle unknowingly above our heads and come to rest in the shadowy corners, next to my chair, under rhododendron leaves. Gears fit fears tonight yet I can't help feeling cold every now and then, spilling myself onto the table like an accidental jolt of a half-full cream jar. The waitress comes around with more water, cool against parched, coffee-stained throat, and I momentarily lose my runaway train of thought - some mind-staggering profundity at the bottom of my brain will just have to go unsaid, I guess. Conversation lulls for a second, and I wonder if we're all bored or if perhaps we've all accidentally offended one another - conflicting opinions do seem to be delicate matters. I reach out to touch a wilting tulip, placid in a vase, and watch as one of the petals falls gently to the table. I think of Tranquillity and Individuality and suddenly I'm stymied. Someone offers me a penny for my thoughts, but I wonder then if they're even worth that much. I dare myself to expose everything, caffeine rantings under the soothingly amorphous glow of a Lava Lamp, but instead a sharp chill runs through my bones like electric shock ... I wonder if I'm making too much out of nothing.

When nothing more is said, we leave, after sufficient fuss about the bill, of course, speeding home, slipping further and further away. At home, I sing myself to sleep under the soft hum of processed air from my fan, feeling sad and frustrated and stupid. The world smolders as I close my eyes and nod off to uneasy dreams ("phantasmagoria" someone once called it); I think I drank too much cappuccino.