Four Cafes
Chantilly lace curtains of my apartment window ripple in the cold January night. From here, I observe mooring lights that illumine the docks in this petty northern port and four cafés that lean toward one another, side-by-side, though separate and apart. I wonder at their co-location. Their twinkling lights blur together in a loud kaleidoscope of color.
The harbor winds carry putrid odors to my window. Sidewalk signs cover most of the walkway. Though too distant to register detail, I discern the outline in flickering neon of two women outside the smallest café as men clad in oilskin foulies lumber into the second, barely a bar, as they all are. Faint modern dance rhythms announce a tiny dance floor inside the third. The brightest café-bar has no one visible. A lone figure in casual attire moves from café to café, not staying long. He moves in the same pattern, over and again, stopping once to chat with the women. I wonder what or who he seeks. The women disappear down a side pathway.
With a desultory outlook for the evening, I close my window, wrap against the cold, and descend the European-styled spiral staircase.
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