Niklas' blog

Demi-tasse.

I long for my demi-tasse and cannot stand the man in front of me. He besieges the slot-machine. The machine with the slot, the machine that brings me yuletide presents in the shape of money. Monies which are my own. From my bank account. Which I need to purchase more coffee.

And when the man is finished, when he has retrieved his money from the machine, when the receipt spat out by the machine hangs like a tongue waving at me, it stays there and I am in the cold perennially, or so it seems. My body aches. But I’m limber, I’ve got gusto, I will hang on harder, longer and more lasting than the tongue because I know it will be gone, even though I wouldn’t want it gone, done by my own hands. It’s the longing that makes it harder. Harder still, as the old man moves out of my way and lets me extract, extort money from the willing machine. And as I move away from it, having discarded my own receipt, I walk past him, into the bright darkness that is the night dying into morning as I make my way into work, into a world entirely rid of old men with long, long ways.

And I open a door and another door and a third as long, long steps further me into infinity. And I’m angry. And I’m sad because there are old men still in this world.

And while I’m angry as Hell, moving upwards, perennially propelled by an elevator with transparent walls I see the old man moving through the first door, seemingly smiling. And I love him for it.