The warm air hits in the café. You swallow. Then you are in it, moving around amongst others. It is a limited warm space. Sitting with wrap around hands the mug is secure. You swallow and try not to gulp through eyes occasionally flung up and down like ping pong balls in a bath.
It’s hot. You wipe the steam from your face, pushing your face further and further out. The pores in your skin are jostling.
The door opens a crack. A cold blast. Your face sets in the reality of a day passing, then shuts. The wandering face is pliable, unsettled.
Water is dripping down the inside of the glass frame which you are facing. Shielded by your back on one side and condensation on the other you are in a little vacuum all of your own. You watch the drips race wondering which will win. It is like watching your face crumbling into different expressions. There is really no point in it. No good in this isolation.
Yet a moment ago you were out in the streets, smiling to all and everyone with the world in your face, the rain on your hair….
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