The Monsoon Season

Another rainy day. Oh well. It prompted this little morning-write:

They've met for breakfast at this cavernous restaurant in the downtown: an old place with a high, tin ceiling; cast-iron poles, decorated and shaped; dark, narrow boards in the floor. They've walked through rain from the parking lot or from the street - where ever it is they've parked - so they come in, wet and shaking it off, or collapsing an umbrella by the door. They sit at one of the great, wide windows at the street, at a table covered with a white tablecloth. The silverware lies on a white napkin by a cup turned upside down on its saucer. They talk. She orders a crepe with lingonberry sauce. He, a couple of poached eggs with hash brown potatoes. The hash browns they serve here are the best, he says. He makes himself tiresome by constantly mentioning this. They talk over their breakfasts, entertaining each other and catching up on daily things - birthdays, funny stories from work, trips they've planned or thought about. Others come in the restaurant, take tables nearby. These people are not wet, carry umbrellas in their hands. The light coming in the window has a warmer tone. The windows are free of raindrops. She finishes her crepe, washes it down with coffee. He finishes his eggs and potatoes. More people are out on the sidewalks now. Pale shadows follow or precede them where they walk. He wants to pay the bill. She want to split it. He insists, perhaps too strenuously. They stand and push the dark, wood chairs under the table. She talks about some annoyance at work, laughs it off. They laugh.
They walk out into the bright morning, suggesting to each other that they get together for breakfast again sometime. A warm wind ruffles her hair.

A little sympathetic magic to turn the day bright and sunny. Have a good one.

Bob