Chapter 54

54

Standing knee deep in a quick moving creek, I simply soak up the sun that pours down upon me from the sky above. Usually, at this time of day, on this glorious of an afternoon, people pack this place with inner tubes and coolers of beer. Yet, on this peculiar day, this kingdom is empty. I stand-alone with my oneness.

It was just yesterday that I felt miserable, slow to get out of bed, lackadaisically making coffee and meandering mundanely about the house without any hope or promise. A tiny piece of me was floating somewhere just out of reach, and although the writing might have flowed a bit better yesterday, creativity is a poor substitute for contentment. I’d stop writing forever if each day could bring such empowerment.

But what is it that has brought about such a change in my personal state of being? It seems that she might have had something to do with it.

Most people choose coffee shops to read, write or study. However, it is truly a poetic soul that understands the intellect that lies halfway though a pint of beer. I found her sitting alone at the other end of the bar, book in hand, a kindred spirit who was delving into the pages of an Ibsen play while I was styling Borges.

She must have been in her early thirties; I had shaved off most of my beard. She was atypically beautiful; I was chewing my thumbnail down to the quick. We were at two different points in our lives, yet forced to meet at opposite ends of this sparsely populated hole in the wall.

I had ordered another round and sent a duplicate drink to her as well. As the new drink arrived she took a break from Henrik to look across the bar at me. She said thank you, first with her eyes, and then mouthed those two words with a soft parting of her thinly painted lips. A slight breeze moved through the windowless bar as those inaudible words hit my ears.

Then she returned to her world, dove back into Ibsen, and I returned to my Borgesian scribbling. There were no further words exchanged, no sleepless nights lost between the sheets of a hotel bed. That night, our paths crossed in the simple purchase of a beverage, a glass half full that has changed me, however so slightly, for the better.

And now I stand, alone in this creek, waiting for others to show up with their dogs, lawn chairs, Styrofoam coolers and raucous Sunday laughter. Sooner or later the population explosion will happen upon this creek side. Perfect days never last forever. But until then, until the quiet is interrupted by children in song, I’ll remain here, soaking up the memory of a wordless conversation and a half filled pint of beer