That place, where the tables are always half-full and yet no one ever seems to bother the one chair you love, the one you’ve carved yourself into? You know the place, where home reaches the pinnacle of meaning, sings into the corners, and orders a usual?
It’s that place, where the bartender/barista doesn’t just know your drink, but knows the curve of your back (that one night) and switches the music whenever he sees you. He knows what you like, and you are sure, when his fingers press into the remote, that it’s the next-perfect-act of tenderness?
You know that place– soft walls and driving bass line. Familiar faces, but none too friendly. In a corner you collapse. If you were a phone, you’d plug into that socket.
But since you are not. You lower onto the hard cafe chair. Rest forearms on the table top. Shutdown the songbird device. Slide into perfect A minor.
The time for love is calling.