Sometimes fire stories

bernardtwindwil Granddad & story teller,
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
I love beatnik coffee houses. But beware of open mike night. People read their own poetry aloud. This can give you diseases you have never heard of.


by bernardtwindwil

When I lived in cities, it seemed as if life, real life

only happened in my books and outside the door to my lonely writer's garret.

It was always cold in my room and in my heart.

I learned the difference between being lonely, being alone, and being lonesome.

The Midi Café, a beatnik coffee house

was always warm. A blanket blocking the cold air from opening and closing the door. They always had flames glowing in their hearth. Comfortable chairs and sofas all around.

I would choose an overstuffed chair near the fire

I was unaware of the message I was subconsciously sending. What the hell, I was warm, had coffee, pastries, and I was surrounded by people silently reading.

I am an extrovert once I cross the threshold of fascination.

Otherwise, I sit silently absorbing on one track and reading on another track. I am dolorously observant of the human zoo.

A pert pretty young lady with eyes that glow

like embers in the pyre. Keeps edging her book down to gaze at me over the pages so laboriously written by some agonized author.

Some unknown musician strums and plucks on a twelve string

performing the notes from some 14th century canzonet. It's easy to read and watch the coquette with his background music.

On several occasions I look up and catch her

throwing our her passionate glances. I am making bets with myself on when she will move on her instincts. I feel the fire.

She started moving on what, I did not know.

She placed her book in her chair and walked to the bar. I became re-engrossed in my book.

I felt her before I saw her hanging over my back.

She had two glasses of amber liquid. "I hope you are a straight Mezcal kind of guy." "I am" I retorted. "Good I am a straight girl too."

She sat on the arm of my chair and handed me a glass.

We toasted and drank the sweet smoky liquid. "What are you reading?" "As I Lay Dying, by Faulkner" "I knew it was Faulkner"

She made a most unusual offer to me.

'Would you like to go to my apartment, get drunk, and screw our brains out?" "I'd rather not get drunk but I'll make breakfast."

This may not work for everyone.

I have never met anyone as pretty as I am.

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