Sitting in the coffee shop, he passes between waking life and dreams; between the real and the more real. I would like to say that he is searching while he is sitting; that sounds somewhat poetic. But I am only an ethereal voice that cannot perceive such things.
Across the table is a blurred representation of a woman. Waiting for his 178-degree coffee to cool down he asks, “Have you found what you are looking for?”
“What’s that?” the woman asked; maybe for clarity.
“I don’t know, isn’t that what you’re supposed to ask in these situations? We are thirty years old after all.”
“Perhaps it is looking for you,” is what she said.
“Are you looking for me?”
“Do you want me to?”
Apparently loosing his sense of direction, he took a drink of his black coffee. “Damn, that’s hot.”