Coffee Crumbs

Encumbered Valentine

Fifth place winner of Poetry to
Prose Contest, written by
MarionBelleKnight

Encumbered Valentine

Today, Annabelle and I tried to reclaim the taste of our old magic friendship. I know Annabelle misses it too, but there it is: beginning, middle and end. Our mirrored emptiness.

The ease of summer has passed. Annabelle is harder to get to. My home makes her uncomfortable, and I could go into why and the way she avoids it, and how that hurts- but I am willing to allow her a layer of grace in all of this.

The freeway entrance is closed. The roads through the inner south of the city loop through neighborhoods and contrived coffee joints and hipster restaurant fad-popups. And I take one wrong turn after another.

I know Annabelle is waiting, and I hate making her wait - but of course the feeling of waiting is deeper, it's grey and long and empty just like me and Annabelle, and Annabelle and I feel it together.

I drive to her through more endless neighborhoods, and then there is parallel parking, which never goes well.

But then there she is in her smart jacket and age appropriate clothing sitting in the sun, waiting for me, smiling and "Oh it's okay and it's alright - let's just go across the street."

Annabelle order's soup. I order curry, and there are some lovely fried cream cheese wantons. She order's tea because that is what Annabelle does at Thai restaurants. We have boring conversations.

A fat grey cat walks by our window seat, so I point him out. He saunters down the busy sidewalk of Applewood with the confidence of an entitled sixty-five-year-old white male. He just strolls his cat-like stroll, and I want to tell Annabelle about how I think in his world he is wears a preposterously dapper suit and tie and there must be a smart cane involved with a fashionable embellishment at the top.

My mind wanders over this cat like it has been wondering over many objects lately. For a moment I am caught in my view of Applewood with all its cloistered cute shops- a neighborhood of Pinterest pastiche. There is an entitled shallowness to it that I have become disillusioned by. Fake. Money. Money recreating authenticity. Fake. Fake. So Fake. So much fucking fakery. Yoga studios and teashops and vintage stores and shops in cottages and massage and little modern studios and only the most adorable of food carts - old fashioned movie theater. Perfect tableau.

Between the cat and Applewood I think about the movie: My Fair Lady - which is based on a Greek myth called Pygmalian - about a sculptor who creates the perfect woman and is blessed when she is brought to life.

My favorite part of My Fair Lady is the part where the old man - who plays the role of the sculptor suddenly breaks into song along the streets of New York. No one remembers this part of the movie - it's awful. He sings "Thank God for little girls" The scene is hilarious, and so completely uncomfortable. An old man ogling a choruses of little girls while singing "Thank God..." Imagine a pedophile musical. It's so ridiculous it's absurd. And I imagine our cat the grey cat as the old man, singing in his arrogant untitled way. "Thank God for Pussy."

Oh, the pastiche of our dreary afternoon. I can't tell Annabelle any of the many things I am thinking. So instead I say, "Oh, look at that fat cat," and Annabelle giggles with me, and I love her because there are always two conversations: The one inside and the one on the outside.

My brain is very much like a cat, a fat entitled hungry cat - oblivious sluggish cat, leery wary brain-pet. My brain pet likes Annabelle, and so it is okay if the real Annabelle seems so far away.