Good Morning

Sept. 23, 2007

Nothing wakes you up better than eight shots of espresso, I suppose. Actually, it’s two Americano coffees with four shots in each. Every Sunday morning I walk through the compound, and cross the street to the Flying Star cafe. It’s always busy, and, although I used to to hate that, now I embrace it. Some people are regulars, like the bicyclists in their skintight uniforms and racing helmets as if they are competing in the tour de France today. Usually there’s a motorcycle or two, but cars predominate. There are families with kids, couples, and old farts, even older than me. The giant windows let in plenty of sunlight to read the Sunday paper. Today I broke down and ordered breakfast too, a $6 croissant with eggs, green chile and cheese. An anti-histamine combined with espresso is doing a lot for my spirits, lifting my sadness at being alone, and pushing back the cold I picked up on my trip to San Jose. The family reunion/birthday party for my Uncle was a joyous occasion, but we probably should not have all sucked on the giant jeroboam of Merlot. A 2003, if I recall correctly. Of course, my cousin Margaret (Peggy) was living with my aunt and uncle and she had been sick too, and she kissed me. And then there are the four planes I used going and returning, with their closed-in musty odor. But, I digress. It rained last night, and remained cloudy this morning, but just as my mood began to chemically brighten, the sun peaked through and lit up my table. Nice.

I think about my 1st wife and the recent conversations I’ve had with her, and look around to see if she has come in. She said she sometimes does. I told my 1st stepdaughter, who lives a few miles down the same road, that I come here very Sunday morning. She is not here either. I think about my recent ex-wife, the Dragon. I should call and see if I can pick up my picture albums from our China trip, but I have all those pictures on disk, so I can’t decide if it would be worth it. I remember the last time I was there, getting the computer finally configured with its own peripherals instead of mine. Her son found the computer for her, but did not set it up. She needed it to look for and apply for jobs. I still don’t know if she ever found one, but she is paying the mortgage. I signed the quitclaim to the house, so it’s entirely her responsibility now. I remember her bare legs next to me as she fed cables down behind the desk for me to connect to the computer. I wanted to run my hand along and up them, under her diaphanous wrap, wondering if, not expecting company right then, she had panties on. She seemed nicer, and perhaps she wouldn’t have minded. Perhaps it would have led to sex. Perhaps it would have been nice. I decided not to try for it. I was still mad at her anyway, and I want to concentrate on Karen instead. Karen could not care less, but still, it’s Karen I really want. (Is that insane, or what?)

An email showed up late Friday afternoon; Karen said she was going to lunch right then, late, but after all. No invitation, but that’s usually implied anyway. So I went. I’d already eaten, and by the time I saw her email and went over there, she was done eating too, and reading her book. Not to be put off, I sat down and talked to her anyway. She put her book down with a little bit of impatience, but I didn’t care, not now. I wanted to talk, to see her, to give her a book I’d read on the plane, and gifts from the Muir Forest in San Fran. She didn’t say much at first, and I kept on talking until she opened up and told me a little about her day and her job. She finally smiled as she talked. When she moved to go, I gave her the gift, these tiny redwood cones made into earrings, in a little redwood snap-shut box. The box had her name on it and it’s derivation and meaning (pure). She smiled when she saw that, and seemed happy to have real redwood pine cones. She likes gifts, but I suspect she hates to give me such encouragement. I’d buy her diamonds if I thought she’d have them. Can’t do that. Can’t push those boundaries too much, or I may not ever see her again, and I surely want to see her, every day if I could.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: