Kindred

I sit at a little cafe table with my notebook, sipping on a cup of tea.  There are similar tables around me, occupied by people performing actions similar to my own, as would be expected within the assumed confines of this little outdoor cafe.  I take another sip of my mostly hot tea, containing the absolute perfect amount of milk within its depths. As I swallow, I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth slide across my tongue and coat my throat in a soothing sense of rightness, eventually settling in my stomach and wrapping around my soul.  With a sigh, I settle the cup within its saucer and pick up my notebook and pen. 

Diligently, I write.  Pondering my decision to use a pen and paper for my work rather than typing on a laptop or even just transferring my thoughts to a recorder.  I shrug, not really caring.  After all, we are who we are, are we not?  My pen glides along the lines of the paper and I can hear it's point scratching the surface and I watch the ink form all of its curls and turns and angles, the sound broken occasionally for punctuation or for a thoughtful pause on my part.  I can feel my eyes adjusting to the pinpoint focus of the page, my ears closing at the same rate that my mind is opening.  This is it.  This is how I work.

There are a couple of larger groups at the cafe.  One of which has pushed a couple of the tiny tables together so they may all sit more comfortably while the other group has decided to just crowd around one teeny table, standing close and holding their cups.  There are mostly twosomes and threesomes here, which is not surprising based on the cafe's offerings when it comes to furniture.  Single tables, such as my own, are also common, with people working, reading or just observing.  I understand them best since we share that particular preference.  People walk by, some not really noticing the cafe at all, some glancing over, longing to stop for a moment, maybe for a much needed dose of caffeine.  As this little corner of the world rotates, I observe and I write.

I notice a young woman entering the courtyard, in search of a free table.  I look around and realize all of the tables are occupied.  As I prepare to wave her over to share mine, the woman is approached by a handsome young man carrying a table and chair.  With a flourish, he arranges the table and chair before her and motions for her to sit.  Even from my vantage point, I can see the pink tinging her cheeks as she smiles shyly and gestures for him to join her.  He quickly grabs a chair from the group he was previously with, the large group with the pushed together tables, and returns to the pretty girl.  I watch and I write, smiling even though the whole encounter has little potential.  They have no kindred threads at all.

Luckily for them, with no kindred threads there are no opposing ones either.  They were free to explore each other without harm coming to either.  Regardless, I could not interfere but at least I knew it was all harmless and for them, the mystery and discovery would be fun, brief as it would be.  A little memory that may someday combine with other moments so that upon reflection, down the road, a transformation may occur, like the growing of a new thread.  I knew that was wishful thinking, having still found no proof for my theory.  Ah well, back to work then.

My work focuses on the young since there is no other way to document the proof I require other than to witness the growth of a new thread.  I, myself, am still young.  Not to all of you but amongst my own kind, I am still within the realm of my educational years.  And I am enjoying my education immensely.  My youthful ego constantly wondering, if my discovery proves true, how will it affect the future?  Does it even truly matter anywhere else but here, in this moment, in this world? 
Within this unique place, where relationships begin blindly, not knowing when one might find a friend, a lover, even an enemy, I realize anything seems possible.  With my restless mind, I can certainly understand the allure of mystery and self discovery and find myself wondering if their way isn't better.  I tuck my pen into my notebook, leaving my teacup at the table, still partially full of cold tea and milk.  As I open the gate to take my leave, I happen to glance back at my table and my teacup, the vessel of such warmth and comfort less than an hour earlier.  A busboy approaches and I turn away as he quickly clears my table of the little cup and saucer, giving access to someone new in the continual stream of early morning patrons.

As I approach the building in which I currently reside, I see the older gentleman at his hot dog cart.  He smiles and nods his head slightly.  I respond with a tiny smile of my own as I feel the slight weight pulling at my heart.  I have spoken with him before.  I knew he was lonely, as unlucky in love as he is.  As I was turning towards my building, a gray haired lady rushes by the cart, coming very close to colliding with it .  In such a hurry, she didn't even look up.  Neither did the man as he busily stocks drinks in the cart's side compartment.  I bite down on my tongue, pressing my lips into a flat line.  Oh, how I want to say something but I can not interfere here.

As I set down my pen and notebook on the little desk in my room, I laugh at my foolish whimsy back at the cafe.  Mystery and adventure may be a fun notion, briefly, but is it worth the risk of a life untethered, a love or friendship never experienced?  To me, there is nothing worse.  I think back to that old man and woman, so oblivious, so separate.  If only they knew...they are kindred.

I got the idea for this story from this picture that a Facebook friend posted on her wall.  Thanks Amber for the inspiration!