I was hoping for a colder morning. The forecast called for temperatures in the mid-40s. I
like it better when it's colder. Less distraction. Less people. Less absurdity.
Damn weather, man. This city's faithful supply of distraction had interfered with my morning
read. I had taken up Balzax in search of lost time. This would be my third read. I don't
read the modern works. They desperately lack imagination. Much like this regime of manufactured,
self-important identities, posing to be cultivated and original. But when you look behind their
identified drapery, like their modern works, a dearth of imagination. Much like this guy
to my right. Don't let the hip frames devil make-hair attitude or the ostensibly urban garb
fool you. It's all one cleverly synchronized cliche. A ruse to fit in. I only wonder, when
does the masquerade end? Or does it go on forever? Just like this pantomime of a romance by this
couple walking by. Notice how he's holding her hand. It isn't love. It is an affection. It's a cover.
Desperately clinging to each other's cold hands for the purpose of salvaging an impossible plastic
identity to ignominiously participate in that theatrical scam of misdirection called young and
in love. Check back on them in five years. This place is loathsome. Filled to its fraudulent
brim with people willing to play a role in this insipid, superficial script. An artificial reality.
Kind of like that character. This rakish, self-deluded dandy, parading a posture he plundered from
those who earned the right to be cavalier, knows nothing about spresatura. That isn't flair,
and it isn't swagger. He is so laughably filled with pretense, just like all the others.
They're jogging. They're coffee. They're healthy food. It's all performative. Bad theater. Yet
they are terribly unaware of the folly they are forever sustaining. Damn fools. Every last one.
And here she comes. On time as usual. I have always known, from the very first time I saw her,
that she was not my type. Stampeding through the door with her facile glamour, designer shades,
and the selfish gorgeousness she arrested from the gods who created her. With a face that has
probably launched a thousand suicides at the foolish hearted. She makes it quite certain to
all that when she is around, they don't exist. Poor lady. Of course, her black suit warns,
don't even think about it. As she waits impatiently, unapologetically, erasing completely the
significance of anyone around her. And there she goes, at her phone, pecking away. Peck,
peck, peck, peck. Her allegiance to the boardroom is required of her. An allegiance which I can
almost guarantee she gladly offered. In exchange for the warmth of the lover's touch. What a fool
he must have been. What a poor soul he must be now. Now this should be entertaining.
With her usual straight coffee in hand, she makes her routine first stop. Two sugars,
a quick splash of soymilk, and two napkins.
Your photo?
Peck, peck, peck, peck. Like I said, totally not my type.
I only wonder, when does the masquerade end? Or does it go on forever?
My thoughts are corrupted, and my thoughts think the worst of you, of you. My heart is
affected, and my heart is sick of you. Oh, Father, teach me to love someone like you.
