(for ToriBell)
The demi-tasse had taken on Wonderland qualities, balanced between her thumb and finger, this essence of coffee, this “drink me” potion. She felt she should make a statement in best literary mode, an observation, a bon mot in-joke that would make the waiter blush at the sight of her dimpled smile.
She waved him to her table with a discreet finger motion, dabbed at the crumbs of cheesecake and giggled, “Clean plate! Clean plate!” in her best twelve-year-old voice.
The crimson reward of his awkward desire was brief amusement on this quiet Autumn afternoon. But Alice had plots to plot, scenarios to paint, tea parties to attend.
The crisp indirect sunlight was postcard perfect in its illumination of the banalities occurring on the far side of the storefront glass, clusters of dead leaves stirring lightly in brief pirouettes of wind.
She was fond of Autumn, a season where whole forests accessorized the random curls framing her face with complimentary reds, oranges, yellows.
It was as if the physics of her immediate surroundings harmonized with her refined sense of style, magnetic lines ordering the aesthetic placement of objects at the molecular level, mise-en-place.
It was from this center of silence the words metabolized, the images found their descriptions, she spoke the poetry that, ultimately, brought her amusement.
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