Mapping Roma

He sits, looking up at the ceiling, and his nerves are getting the better of him. It is the first meeting of the lumberjack society, and so far, he is the only one who has bothered to show up. He had gotten up early, combing his beard carefully and putting on his favorite plaid flannel. Walking out the door he had felt confident, but now, sitting on a hard wooden stool without a soul near him, his confidence has swirled down the drain. What if his brethren stand him up? He checks his watch, uncertain. Is he early? Or are they very, very late? He hadn’t always been a lumberjack, though his grandfather had been one in his youth. He wants the feeling of safety that comes with belonging to a community. He resolutely keeps every stool near him empty in the hopes that when his companions do come, they will have a place to sit and catch up. He waits, and looks out the window idly, but it is clear that he recognizes none of the cars driving by or the people strolling about. He sits i

Laughter peals through the air like bells, rising above the harsh spritz of the foam mixer. An argument takes place behind me, sharp words punctuated by sharp inhales of air. Somehow it is a comfort, the noise of interaction cementing my place in the reality of the moment. The scent of coffee, dark and smooth in the cool air, permeates the room as I close my eyes to my surroundings. A picture dances behind my eyes without the boon of sight. A click. A closing of a door. The air tastes like coffee too, though it does not share the bitterness of the real, genuine thing. An unpleasant taste, but one that fits in with the all encompassing coziness of my chosen place of respite. Another laugh rings out, from the screech of chair legs across concrete, followed by the quiet rustling of a coat being shed in the warmth of the indoors, away from the bite of the wind beyond the big glass windows. The tapping of light fingertips dancing across a keyboard is barely audible over the hazy ambian