Stanzas: Monthly Chapbooks September 2014: The First | Page 18

The Essence of It
Shane Vaughan

A

h, there it is. The old coffeehouse. The beaten armchair with
the fluff coming out the side. The dark circlet stains on the
scraped, worn tables. The smell of memories and dust and love.
The essence of it all.
It was dark that day, an overcast downtrodden feel to the place.
Winter was fast approaching and the air was starting to nip at the
bones so we held each other tight and did that awkward coupleshuffle down the windy avenue. That always was my favourite
street; cobblestoned and speckled with intrigue, oddities dotting
the lane and quirky shops on every side; a small art gallery
and an antique book store; the second-hand factory and the
coffeehouse.
The coffeehouse.
But less of that now, more later.
We were smiling, weren’t we? I remember you were telling me
a story or a joke or some anecdotal romance or, or, or—
No, we were definitely smiling, and the wind was blowing us
about something fierce, and you laughed as my hat blew off and
we chased it down and—
No, was that later perhaps? Or before?
Before.
That day we were silent. It was dark and depressed; pathetic
fallacy, hello old boy. Your eyes were turned down, watching
every movement of your feet as though if you took your gaze
away you might never hit rock-bottom and float away with the
books and the art and the dust gathering on the shelves and the
torn armchair and –
I’m getti