the lovely SYNCHRONISTIC, SEEMINGLY RANDOM BUT EXPERTLY QUILTED universe, friday A.M.

when i am lucky, with a day or at least a morning off, i'll get a croissant w/butter & apricot jam and a coffee at tartine. a mighty, thousand-caloric-intake-at-least endeavor, i find this breakfast a terrific treat with good psychic benefits, though it leaves me gastronomically bereft for the rest of the day.

it's also good just to leave the house. even less than one block is enough.

friday was a rainy such lucky day. my friend nait was working, nait who once set his moustache aflame trying to light a broiler in a trailer in france, and who humors me since i am newly learning french: confiture. beurre.

when you are solo at public table, there becomes a dance. this particular dance-for-one is one of the world's great dances. there are others. pas de deux, etc. etc. but i'm erring at that dance, you know, when you are alone at a cafe table trying to eat and drink and also read a book. mine is a borrowed book, and i am extra-concerned about crumbs and buttery fingerprints.
failing smoothness, i find sequence: i have eaten and now want to read. it's gray out, husky even, the air a cold wet breath, and everyone's crammed in here. i feel the lust for my table. couples wearing fleeces seemingly don't notice the guy against the wall (who has been giving me one eye) has been here longer, nursing one small paper cup. his stenographer's notepad seems criminal. i am too sensitive to the din. i'm gonna pack it in.

then appears a young woman in the aisle, cradling a latte bowl, who asks, can i share the table with you. yes, of course. i am relieved; i can keep reading. for now the book, nameless, remains face-down on the table while we two strangers flutter & settle. it is easy. i pick up the book, and she too produces some perfect-bound printed-matter. placid to share the space, and also curious about what she's reading, i look across the table, nosing like a dog at another dog's butt, getting a sense. we haven't even introduced ourselves.

NO YOU'RE NOT, i say. no you are not.

i hold up my book to her. she flips hers over like a playing card. there, on the table lay two copies of the book
if on a winter's night a traveler BY ITALO CALVINO.

aye, maman. after nervous laughter at the lovely SYNCHRONISTIC, SEEMINGLY RANDOM BUT EXPERTLY QUILTED UNIVERSE>>>>>> i learnt her name is katherine.