The café stayed open, always. That was the rule — a rule forged in medias res World War II, kept alive by the taciturn nostalgia of many an ex-pat author’s internationally canonized ennui. The hunter skins the hide off a young doe; the process takes cold, cold hours, a supple hand, and tools with edges sharp as survival itself. He’ll write out of this life someday, inventing conversations and trysts for characters to have in coffeehouses far away, reciting aloud, “It’s the beans, not the bloodshed, dear girl, that won the fight.”



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s