Morelle Smith
Morelle Smith is a writer of poetry, fiction and travel articles, with a particular focus on the Balkans. She has published several books of poetry and fiction, the most recent being Time Loop, (2010) a novel partly set in 13th century Languedoc, France. Her blog is Rivertrain [http://rivertrain.blogspot.com]
The café is empty,
except for me, and the person
who brings me a mug of tea.
He is tall, speaks slowly
has a foreign accent I cannot identify
and an exquisite jawline.
Thick moisture on the inside
of the window.
When I run my finger over it,
water drips down the pane.
And outside, it is raining.
A newspaper lies on the table
next to me.I am writing in my book
and the footsteps of the man
who served me
move slowly across the café;measured steps I hear quite clearly
above the whiny chatter of the radio.
I’m just about to look up
when he picks up the paper,
walks back again
behind the counter.
I left most of the mug of tea,
not because it tasted bad
or I didn’t like the mug
or the radio station.
Or because the sound of the knife
being sharpened grated on my ear.
No, I left because I was late for
an appointment.
That’s why I didn’t drink the tea.
It had nothing to do with that
haunting jawline.
This street is crowded in the mornings,
coloured dresses hanging outside shops,
metal pans flash sunlight,
voices rise and fall, a shout of greeting,
women’s laughter -
then the warble of a songbird.
In the afternoon, the shops and kiosks
are all closed. A thin cat hesitates
in front of delicate wrought iron gates
leading to a garden with a palm tree.
The house is shuttered, silent, in the heat.
The cat slips through the gap between the railings.
There is no shade of tree or awning in the empty street.
Even the caged bird’s song is paralysed with heat.
You do not want to knock,
implying separation -
a formality you have chosen not to feel.
You do not want to walk in either,
assuming a connection
that you know by your impatience, is not there.
So you rattle at the doorknob -
a hesitant demanding,
mixing manifestos, ultimata
and your unshakeable intent,
once across the threshold,
hands in packets, shoulder to the wall,
you mutter revolutions into corners of the room.
You look like the cherub
left out of Michelangelo’s fresco,
endearing and defiant,
looking for the corner of the canvas
where you feel you must belong -
as if it was the last place on this earth
you cared about
