Today he partook of the Viennese hospitality on 86th Street and 5th Avenue, comfortably seated at a central table within Café Sabarsky. The Arabica beans had been encouraged by the barista to achieve their full potential and now their buttery residuals lay content along the recesses of his mug and more appropriately, along the petal of his palate. As he sat, The New York Times strewn before him, the café’s aroma warmed his face, rising pointedly from the cup, like subtle whispers of the thing he was supposed to be.
The collar of his auburn jacket was turned up, shielding his neck. Though it was spring, the bitter of winter found it hard to part with New York. The combination of his wool garment and accompanying sweater would be ample materials to keep him warm, as the Amaretto inspired café spread its wings throughout his chest.
It was all very familiar. It was beginning to become familiar.
The sadness was almost gone.
He had not read the paper in some while, though he remembered the arts section. His family had long been patrons and he had enjoyed the ethereal sciences immensely. It was his intention to visit the museum directly after.
His fellow occupants were similarly immersed in tales expressed through verse or conversation. He only diverted from his reading once, though when he began to approach the business section, he knew the time had come to depart. He gathered his items, a black scarf among them, and began tidying up a bit. He pushed his chair closer into the table and wanted to say his farewells to the barista, whose attention to her craft he greatly appreciated. Yet, a blonde bun impeded his sight.
As the barista caught his eye and smiled, he attempted to maneuver around the patron whom was placing her order.
And then Lucy turned.
“It’s you!” she stammered.
Benjamin stared at the Nordic beauty, unsure of what to say.
Implode. Part XXVIII - DK
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