The bread was good that day
The bread was good that day. Not as dry as some other days. As he sat at the small table in the diner, he was trying to enjoy his breakfast. Some days, the bread was a bit dry. In his mind, he compared it to eating the equivalent of dry cement. On those days, he drank a little more coffee to get rit of the dryness in his throat. Today was not like that. The bread, dark rye, was dry and firm, but just juicy enough to make it really tasty, with a slight hint of bitterness in its aftertaste, yet leaving an overall sweet taste in his mouth.
The coffee was the same as always. Served hot by Patricia, who’d been working there for over ten years now, who had become like a trustee of sorts, in his mind, one of the inner circle of his imagination, not too strong, not too bitter, almost exactly as he preferred it, although, if it would have been perfect coffee, for how long would that still be perfect? And at the same time, did he actually know exactly what perfect coffee would have tasted like? In some ways, isn’t it better to have something left to desire, instead of going for perfect satisfaction? After another sip, he put the cup back on the red and white squared plastic sheet, that covered the small table on the left wall, half in front of the window. A little drop slowly made it’s way down his cup, heading for the read and white plastic, ready to change the color of a red or a white square, or, maybe more than one, which would be like a triumph, as if the drop was on the winning hand in a tiny war between coffee and plastic.
As his mind wandered, he looked outside. It was a grey morning, not too cold, moist air, with a light cold wind from the east. He had taken his hat out of the closet earlier that week, meaning that winter was coming. There were still some leafs on the trees, and a few small birds were flying and chirping at each other, it almost looked like they were playing. He smiled at the thought of the birds playing, as if they were sending out a message saying “see us, we play as if there is no care in the world”, almost as if the universe was playing one big joke on mankind, and he was the one to discover. He remembered a time where things were light in his world, almost sweet in taste, a feeling of happiness and freedom, where he felt loved and cared for by the people around him, a warm, fuzzy feeling that almost has the same effect on you as when you get home really tired and drink a big glass of bordeaux, sitting at the wooden kitchen table, close to the heater, his favorite spot in the whole house. That was a long time ago.
He took another sip of his coffee. When he put back his cup, he noticed that Patricia looked at him for just a second, with her brown eyes and her firm but friendly face. Did she just check if he was ready for a refill? Or did she look at him? What did she see? A quiet man, sitting there, like any other day, looking sad, drinking his coffee and eating his rye bread? He had almost finished his coffee. There were only crumbs left from the bread, and he was picking them slowly, each one giving just a hint of the taste in his mouth. It was like the way he felt: only a hint of memories from his life was still there, waiting to be forgotten, to be denied, in order to restore peace in his mind. One might call it survival instinct. And yet, it was only a little over three years ago that he came here. He would have never been able to stay. The atmosphere was too heavy, too many things happened that left a sour taste, one that never goes away. By coming here, he literally had left everything behind him. Sadly, he knew better. Feeling a bitter smile on his face, he knew he would never escape this. He would never be able to forget, no matter how hard he’d try. He also knew that there was no chance of starting over. One door has to close before another door opens, and his door was broken down, it could never be closed again.
Patricia came over to his table for a refill, and smiled friendly at him. He nodded vaguely in an attempt to say thanks, but his mind was too far away, buried in the memories of what was once his life. He imagined her reaction to the things he’d said, would she still get him a refill? Or would she hit him on the head with the coffeepot while shouting at him? He would never know. Inside, he had taken a vow of silence. He only spoke when it was essential, other than that, he kept his mouth shut. He had said everything. Once, he had spoken his mind, and it had derailed the lives of more than two people. He considered that enough for one lifetime. Never they would here his thoughts spoken again, he had vowed. “Are you okay?”, she asked. He nodded politely and turned his gaze out the window again. She didn’t insist.
