The other time I ran to Micheal’s , it was more of a granny’s-gossip bar than couple’s date. Is this how cafes age? And still bear with people like me, and others that just eats and forgets every cushion colour, every cutlery, or the way they place those ikebana in each corner totally over? The bartender continued humming that gloomy old songs, when I saw his greyed streaks from behind those thick rimmed glasses, staring , far off from divans, through those windows, across the eventful traffic, down the next foot to a guy waving to her girl , he would return, or maybe he won’t. This neon makes it so difficult to make out, expressions of ageing people. Maybe one day the bartender if not me would see him back, old, on that foot, they would cross the traffic, hands cupped together, push those glasses open, not much glancing over the greyed streaks to ask for some Sushi and a champagne.
As I looked back, the bartender wasn’t what’s called gazing, but the Calypso reverberated, on and on . It said stories of deciduous lovers, assaults of time, those forgotten goodbyes. Does he return? Or does she forget what’s waiting? Grey streaks have so much to tell, foggy glasses see little, still stares through and through, fragile lover minds, certain uncertainties, spring earth smells, pine forests, and black probability constants. Those white gloves still waving, within obvious black crowd commotion, they whistle off, apart part by part, those gloves yet waving ,to miles and miles bygone, to what they call , lover.