Learn From It

The work doesn't come, or rather, the brain refuses to nestle in the zone that makes the good work happen. It's too close to June, which makes it too close to the end of June, which means the arrival of the Other Half in San Francisco, formally and finally. Too close to be able to reliably focus on work. It's work just to reach the point at which work can be accomplished.

A documentary filmmaker discusses craft with a woman who knows her stuff as well. A denim jacket hangs on the back of her chair, cuffs and collar finished in faux brown fur. He loves what he does. That's the kind of Happy that has a blast radius. The best kind of sharing-the-wealth.

Prissy esses hiss in my direction, hit my back and fly past me, an errant spray of sibilant bullets. Who can love that and one's self at once?

A man in his forties, balding. What remains grows long, loosely bound in back. He hunches forward, arms out across the small cafe table, whispers love into the ear of a pretty blond woman with a heavy Scandinavian accent. Her arms touch his, stroke the hair of his forearms. They talk around smiles. Clearly love.

Hushes now, from the table behind. He Who Doesn't Exist is being talked about.

Beautiful boys move furniture and other detritus of work and of living from the apartments above the cafe. Two are clearly brothers. They sweat, but they also smile. Happiness there not in the work, but in the coworkers. Even at twenty paces, you can distinguish a simple group from a solid team. Sweat. Smiles. Beautiful boys. A bad, bloinky soundtrack isn't far behind.

A chanteuse sings All the Way over an incidental sound system in the cafe. It's not soon enough, it's not June enough. There's not moon enough. After all.