Friday nights always find him wandering the aisles in search of someone
he knows. It isn’t really so pathetic. At times he
will see colleagues from the university where he teaches Biology,
sometimes even the occasional student will catch his attention.
He doesn’t mind talking to the students in this setting, in fact he
welcomes the opportunity to utilize his vocal cords with some
meaningless banter. He often worries that they could atrophy over
the weekends and especially on holidays from school; he frequently hums
or makes guttural noises just to keep them active. His body he
takes care of at the YMCA. Every day after his last class ends
and he is faced with the long evening ahead, he grabs his gym bag and
heads with energized purpose to his twenty minutes on the
Stairmaster. He isn’t lonely. His evenings can comfortably
be filled if he makes use of the amenities at Borders after his daily
work-outs.
Cafe Tortoni. Buenos Aires. Argentina. The oldest cafe in the country.
With wood- panelling, built-in antique mirrors and art deco lamps of
different sizes, colours and shapes. It is always dark even by day. The
waiters dress in black slacks with cuffed white shirts and aprons. The
wooden-embossed bar is long and winding; its shelves stocked to the
brim with bottles of all kinds. The pictures that line the walls hold
in their frames, past visitors like Federico Garcia Lorca, the Perons,
Don Carlos of Spain and Jorge Luis Borges. And in the evening, the
famous tango venue room in the back beats rhythmically to the sounds of
Carlos Gardel, the singing jewel in Argentina’s crown.
Andrea took a deep breath and pulled open the door of Wired
Monk. She marched along the dim corridor into the humming
café, heels tapping a sharp rhythm, short chestnut curls bouncing,
determined to maintain control.
Earlier that morning, Debbie phoned imploring, “Andrea, I have to see you.”
“I don’t have time to waste rehashing twenty year old events.” Andrea paced as she spat the words.
“Please. It’s an emergency.”
“Is someone dying? Otherwise forget it.”
“Almost.” Debbie’s voice faltered.
“Is it Mom?” Panic brought Andrea to an abrupt halt.
We stood at the head of the zebra in Fayetteville, Arkansas, about to
tie the sema with over a hundred faces staring at us. I was
nervous; kept moving my weight from leg to leg atop hand-painted zebra
“rug” on the glazed concrete floor. The coffee house, Common
Grounds, had an exotic traveler motif in their side room - the room
where we met, the room we chose for our ceremony.
Stories 
