She walked briskly towards the miniature tables that you always find at crowded European coffee shops. She pulled out a chair and slumped her bum on it. Her husband followed slowly, his heavy steps slow by weight and age. His white hair receding to the back of his head, freckles covering his shiny baldness.
She, on the other hand, was quite slim, and seems fit for her age. Her arms and legs were strong and muscular, yet her hands and face covered with wrinkles. Her white blonde hair was cut short, its frizziness making her look like cotton candy on a stick.
Funny how hair reflects the mood and the personality of a person. Shiny healthy hair resonates a lovable personality. Marines crop indicates professionalism and order. Frizzy, unhealthy hair reflects a troubled personality. Nothing’s set in stone though, only a theory.
However, she was one of those hair-matches-personality type of person. She was angry, stiff and jittery. And everything she did matched how she looked like. His hair matched his, he looked apologetic and a little bit worried. Did he look this way all the time?
The waiter came by and took their orders. She didn’t bother taking her shades off even though the sun was behind her. She asked about the menu sounding disgusted, as if she was forced to sit in this particular coffee shop. Her husband ordered with a friendly face and a huge smile, as if feeling apologetic for his wife’s uncanny disgust.
While waiting for the orders the crowds filled in. Walking tours and museum tours stopped for lunch breaks. Noise arose like a giant woken up from a slumber. It started slowly, and soon gained momentum. Vibrations of buzz rising up here and there, like an orchestrated symphony.
The old couple contributed to the crowd with a few words back and forth. Not to be considered a conversation, just words being snapped at the other. Then silence. The orders arrived; hers ice-cold and his warm. And she sipped her cold soda with composed rigidity, her lips locked so tight one would think that she wasn’t drinking. Merely bringing her lips to the cup and letting them touch the ice-cold soda. And as if by osmosis, the liquid in the cup receded.
The whole scene could depict a life they are leading. Or it is merely a scene; something that happens and is then replaced by another scene, one different in mood and setting. This scene just happened to be one of anger and apology. As the scene ended, the sun hit the empty chairs directly. Breeze blew away a dirty tissue from the table. The waiter cleared the table with professional precision and swiftness. The chairs were filled again. Scene two.
Hunna Blog, a peek into the pages of our notebooks and our minds. Not a literacy area rather a jungle of thoughts.