Convince me with your theatre, Ishmael. There! I’ve called you by the sobriquet of your own request.
What if the difference between AD and BC occured when we split that first atom; and, now, we all live in the year that never was.
Perpetual year zero?
And the sun is Janus.
And the moon is Janus?
⊙
Æ surfs the space between the crest and the trough which forms this wave of now; I sleep.
⊙
Æ asks: did you dream in my absence, last night?
Aye: I respond.
⊙
I dreamt manager/server J. took a reservation for one for this Friday morning lunch. Which she would never do. Which she would fuss at someone for doing. I read the book of reservations and see:
1- The ice queen. 12:00
The other servers fuss at J.
The dream succinctly ends.
~
In waking lucidity
I bequeathed her the name: the ice queen. She is a once a month or so regular at the bistro.
Perhaps late sixties. Strangely beautiful in an unconventional sense. Odd eyes. But, her presence is thicker than most. Her gravity is a strange currency. Her aura strikes me as a juxtaposition of sharp black and crisp white. No hint of true colour.
She dresses in full capes and cloaks, seemingly tailored for her, specifically. Scarlets, golds, and greens scantily distributed over dense black threads. She always dines alone. She speaks purposeful and hardly at all. It took me four visits to elicit a hint of a smile or any warmth from her voice.
On the other hand, it took server K. one visit to make her smile!
I think of her as the ice queen because I doubt she is ever cold, despite appearances to the contrary.
~
And?: Æ queries, foot tapping in impatience.
And, at lunch service today, I had exactly one available table. Every table was sat except this one table for two, in the back of the dining room and adjacent to the servers’ station.
In strolls the ice queen. Unannounced, of course, as the reservation was just a dream and not in the book.
I seat her. The table is in server J.’s section.
I tell J. this story. She seems less than impressed.
As I clear the empty soup bowl from her table, the ice queen asks me: have you entered this clam chowder in the Clam Chowder Cook-Off?
Hum. I don’t know. I did not know there was such a thing!: I reply.
She says: Well, it happens in February but the deadline for entry applications may already be closed. You should look into it, though. This is excellent.
And, before I can ask, she proffered: Talk to B. X. You can find him…{she gestures up the street and left across the avenue.}
Outsider-Insider speak.
WrittenCasey 