Voyeur

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 in isolation as the hands of the clock above his head turn with a slow inevitability. The sounds of people milling about keep him on edge, and his shiny new boots tap a nervous rhythm on the concrete floor. Had all this effort been for nothing? He tells himself that they will come, that his lumberjack friends have not forsaken him, but in his chest he feels his heart sink. The door jingles as it opens, and he doesn’t look up. He crumples his empty cup of coffee, dreading his return to the empty, chilly apartment. Theres a tap on his shoulder and he looks up, eyes wide. It is a member of his group, and he apologizes for his tardiness. His heart soars, and he smiles. 

(Kru Coffee, February 23.)