|Breton's Nadja, 2012|
It was only a routine physical. My reflexes flex, my lungs are clear, no moles to keep an eye on. I am fine, but there are choices to be made about my future. They don't just tell you what to do anymore, you are expected to participate, ponder various studies, make decisions. It's strange how knowing more can make you feel less safe.
So I go to City Lights, unsure if I enter to find the comfort to think, or to escape life for a while. I find Nadja by Andre Breton, a Surrealist romance. Nadja reminds me of Dulcinea, and I've always been intrigued by Dulcinea.
I chat with the tall slim bookish man at the counter. He is grey, emanates just a hint of literary smugness, and is handsome in his own interesting way. His smile is warm and kind and his black frame eyeglasses confirm his intelligence. He notices my uncommon middle initial on my credit card and inquires. I appreciate his odd attention to detail and it helps me forget all I wish not to think about.
Vesuvio is just next door, and it is peaceful, cool, and dark. Although it is only 11:00 AM I decide to order a pint and sit upstairs beside quiet window light, with a new book I do not need. But the book does bring me solace, its bright orange and yellow cover. I pause and admire it, and the wonderfully painted little round table it rests upon, and I sip my pint and watch the silent bustle on the street below.