Cafe

We took the table in the back corner, weaving carefully through the sea of densely-packed tables and chairs. It was tricky to move without trampling other people's stacks of books and coats, to turn carefully through ad-hoc aisles without wiping a table clear of all dishes with our packs, to step over nests of cables snaking across the floor with our salt-encrusted boots. "Sorry, excuse me, sorry, didn't mean that, oops, watch out," came the endless stream of apologies, sincere and received with equal parts sympathy and annoyance. We wanted the back corner table, where most people didn't feel like sitting due to the minefield of humanity that must be traversed, but we knew we'd be safer from the very interruptions we imposed on the others once we got there.

It was only the second time we've taken the back table. It takes three times before something becomes a tradition that must be sustained, so the next time we meet, we'll have to make the decision one way or another. The table was barely big enough to fit two hot beverages, one pastry plate, a water bottle, a bike helmet, two notebooks, and a stack of work prints wrapped in a green bandanna, but we made do.

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08 February 2014 19:16

Happens All the Time

"Aren't you freezing biking around in this weather?" the elctrician asked me when I wheeled my bike into the elevator. I just gave him a shrug and a grin.

"How else am I supposed to get around?"

"Well, I don't know. Do you live too far away to walk?"

"Not really, it just takes too long."

"But you won't freeze the way you would on a bike."

"Honestly, I'd rather be really cold for fifteen minutes than kind of cold for forty-five."

He watched me peeling off my outer layers and shook his head once the elevator got to my floor. "I just think you'd freeze on a bike."

"Nah, I'm fine. Take it easy!"

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07 February 2014 14:18

Hard Ground

There's a sheen over the snow, and small objects that fall onto its surface skitter across. The top of the snow has frozen into a layer of ice. Sometimes, my foot slips before I crunch through it. The nights might be long in the winter, but it's never truly dark so long as there is snow blanketing the ground.

The eggs have pink stamps reading 'Use By 9 March' that don't wash off even after they've been boiled, but the lettering blurs as if viewed through oiled glass. The carrots come in a bag that reminds us to 'wash before using'. Food is used. Food is useful.

I float through the days.

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06 February 2014 18:34

Hard Rain

Right before I drifted off to sleep, a sound like pebbles thrown against my window roused me; I sat up and watched pellets of ice tinkling against the glass, melting on contact, then freezing in place. The pattern of rain splatters froze like a photograph, like footprints of the storm.

I pushed through four inches of hardened slush, the bottom of my bike's frame grazing the ice before my wheels found traction on the pavement. A woman stood in the street with a bright yellow bag of road salt in her hand, loading it into her car. She waved and gave me a thumbs-up; the grin on my face must have been visible even through my balaclava, goggles, helmet, and hood.

"I just sent my husband off in this! What do you think?"

I stood up on my pedals, pushing my wheels even deeper into the ice so they'd bite down on the ground. "I love winter. I love winter so much."

Her cheers followed me down the road.

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05 February 2014 16:50

Detailing

The director of the gallery space walked by as I was carefully scraping at the labels we left behind. I made sure to insert my razorblade exactly between the paper and the painted wall, only pulling when I knew I had cracked the seal from the gluestick we used to mount them two weeks ago. Little flecks of paper and dried glue scattered at my feet, but the wall remained unmarked.

"You're being very good about cleaning up after your installation," she noted, rubbing a hand over the pockmarked surface. "Maybe I'll send someone by to spackle this later."

I smiled and continued picking at the labels. If she thought to save me half an hour of tedious work, she was wrong. Say what you will about photographers, but we're a neurotically meticulous bunch.

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04 February 2014 17:22