I turned around and no one was there. The same two were still in front of me however, but the recently inserted revolving door of faces that sat in the open space behind me disappeared this Wednesday morning, and a tropical dampness set in above the city as the weather woman spouted a full day of rain.
Where could they have gone, and why were they missing all at once? As the dreary morning marched on, the same conversations pursued the lunchtime hour and then those in front of me vanished as well. The lighting was dim, washed out with the grey sky above seeping in through the old factory style windows, as dry leaves on the carpet that crumbled beneath their own delicate weight; no dog sounds today and I wish I had never brought in that large book.
I left the building and found myself speaking with my barber, who tidied my hair as he spoke back and we agreed about people on holidays. Then because of the weather, a nearby Shanghai dumpling shop was only peppered with people, so there was room for one or maybe four. Chicken and prawn, steamed, ten of them slimy suckers, dipped in a chilli and soy sauce mix. They were just as delicious as last time.
The remaining afternoon was spent writing for another person. I polished garble, which was the feat. I cleared a three thousand dirty words from my page. My page. I think it is too similar to my early works but nonetheless useable and much more readable. I hated carrying that large book home. I should’ve read some of it on the train but I was on reader instead.
A sip of malbec. A new recipe for meatballs and pasta was used; the red roo meat was rich and complemented the red wine and red diced tomatoes, simmered to near perfection, and I wondered if olives would add to this wonderful sauce.
A silence fell over the space, and only the quick, successive typing of a thumb to screen could be heard, if that was what you were to concentrate on. I closed both of them and let the spiral lights within the darkness of my eyelids take me away.
Daily Tulpa 