A Pensive Morning
This is in continuation to The Letter. I recommend reading it if you haven’t already.
He opens his eyes gently, and blinks. Tilting his head, he notices streams of sunlight penetrating through the narrow slit between the velvet curtains. His mouth is extremely dry, like twigs of the tree swaying with the wind outside. He does not see it coming.
A wave hits him. Of what, he does not know. He starts sobbing, clutching the cold sheets with his powerful, muscular hands. The empty glass from last night watches the act unfold, deep emotion and silence percolating the room concurrently.
He skips shaving and slowly enters the the shower. So cold at first, he lets out a shriek. Gradually, the warmth seeps within him, providing him with a brief respite from all that he has been experiencing. He stands there and hums his favourite jazz piece, glancing at droplets racing against each other on the steamy glass. It feels like a lifetime.
The musky scent of his cologne lingers in the room. Whilst tucking his beige linen shirt in, he stares deeply at his reflection in the mirror. It is staring back at him, the light stubble, damp hair and the brown eyes, matching his dark coffee-coloured khakis.
He folds the letter carefully and slides it into his front pocket. The watch waiting by the bedside is finally worn and the velvets are slowly dropped, turning the room into a subtler version of itself. After letting his eyes hopelessly wander across the dim room, he twists the cold doorknob and thrusts the door open to a deserted lobby. It smells crisp, like white tea and thyme. The fragrance plants a momentary seed of joy within him and while waiting for the elevator, he lets himself acknowledge it. Joy, albeit being momentary, is joy.
Trying not to think anymore, he steps outside and tries to find a cozy coffee shop. Sicily was moderately cold at this time of the year. The warm sun beats down upon him gently. Apricity. Walking down the cobblestone street, he notices a lady showcasing her beautiful pottery. Urns, pots and vases of all shapes and colours are on display. He is tempted to buy the pastel blue vase, but refrains from doing so. He loved shades of pastel. His heart feels heavy for a moment but he continues walking ahead. Suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of Italian coffee, he turns left to a narrow alley and spots a ‘Caffè’ sign entangled in vines of Bougainvillea. Upon entering the creaky old shop, he finds it to be empty. The old man sitting by the counter, reading ‘Giornale di Sicilia’, looks up to greet its first visitor. “Buongiorno signore!”, he says in a frail voice.
He checks his watch. 9:42 a.m. He had completely lost the track of time. “Buongiorno.….un caffè macchiato per favore”, he replies nervously. “Caffè macchiato, sarà pronto!”, the old man says cheerfully.
He sits down by the thick leaded glass window and pulls out the letter, a white envelope and a crimson-coloured stamp. The parchment is unfolded and read through again. Once finished, he gazes outside pensively. A yellow bicycle rests beside a rather mouldy wall, waiting to be ridden again. It has developed a few rusty stains, and the small basket at the front is stuffed with a pile of old newspapers. The tyres seem worn out too, suggesting that they have travelled and seen most of Sicily.
His train of thoughts is interrupted by the old man, who gently slides a porcelain cup onto the polished marble table.“Divertiti!”, he says in a mellow tone and sits back down at his sweet spot to continue reading his beloved newspaper.
He puts the stamp on the corner of the envelope carefully whilst enjoying the rich and deep aroma of his coffee. He stays there then, sipping away in solitude. The old man, slightly worried, looks at him occasionally to make sure that his customer is enjoying his time. Finally, he is paid, thanked and bidden adieu.
The door squeaks shut, and the shop is left empty once again. The scent of his cologne still lingers, instilled with a little melancholy this time.
