November brings rain, the crisp smell of fall has gone away to leave room for the burnt wood of winter. The coldness in the air brings about emptiness, a sensation of being out in the open in a vast place.
Walking on the jagged sidewalk, a Scottish white furred terrier is out for his scheduled evening stroll. The stride of his wide and short little legs looks defeated by the rain, walking through a puddle while other dogs playfully jump alongside its edge. His tail stands weakly upright, a slight sign of hope. His entire being seems to represent complete acceptance of being soaked, but devotedly continuing on in anticipation of the warmth and sweetness waiting for him at home.
Bordeaux is the cat's name, I find out surprisingly quickly through a vague internet search. The black cat with a reversed mustache who slept on a cushion on the windowsill in the wine shop. The cushion is no longer there, nor is the sign that read not to tap on the glass. It is highly probably the cat has died and it makes me sad.
For a while, I keep going to clothing stores after work in search of a new me. I recently browsed through racks in a fashion retailer and apart from the frustration of sifting through a mess of clothes, I was disgusted by all the litter. There were candy wrappers on the floor, an unfinished or finished (not that it matters) sandwich left in a shoe box, a plastic half filled soda cup in a coat isle, a banana peel on top of a sweater rack. The gross display of complete disregard for public decency makes me feel ill and envision living on a different continent, somewhere with quaint streets full of history and restaurants that keep tables outside without chaining them down to discourage thievery.
I take myself out to dinner/delayed lunch, any table for two and I sit on the high table by the window with Lily next to my cappuccino. It is too late in the evening for coffee, but how can I resist in a dim room with twinkling string lights? The first few pages were dull, disappointing even, until I understood. Her writing is like listening to a close friend who gets intimate, revealing facts that are rarely spoken aloud. It is the kind of writing I want to do more of, present and deeply personal. Lily (with one l) is alarming at first because she starts in the middle, in the inner-most parts of things.
Scream. I am standing against a wall on the opposite side of a room with a man. I cannot.
Why not?
I am uncomfortable being loud.
I'd like to say more on being loud. I have been making an effort to escape all the noise.
On the side streets at night I find peace with the crunching of the leaves, the volume turned down on the world, the headlights shining on a fluffy rabbit sitting still on a lawn. In a coffee shop, the music makes me uneasy and a girl that works there is making noise as she takes away the trash bags for closing time. At home, each drop from our leaky shower breaks my heart. It really does. The slightest sounds often do. I'd like to say more on how a whisper can make the loudest of sounds.