On Coffee and Sparks.

I saw the person I most want to talk to today. We were walking in opposite directions and she said ‘Hi, Jeff.’ I replied with ‘Hiya’ (because I’m terrible for forgetting people’s names just when I need them.) She continued: ‘You OK?’ to which I replied ‘Yes, thanks. Are you?’ ‘Yes, thanks.’ And neither of us broke our respective strides one jot, but passed like fully cloaked Klingon spaceships plying their respective but unconnected courses through the arid darkness of the cosmos.

That’s how life is for me these days. What I really wanted her to say was ‘Hi, Jeff. Can I buy you a coffee and tell you what moves me, what drives me, and where my mind wanders in unguarded moments?’ They never do, you know. The only people who say things like that to me these days are people I’m desperately trying to avoid. And one of my distant memories is that I once took the reckless step of inviting somebody for coffee. It was about eight years ago. She declined the invitation and I’ve never made the same mistake since.

But life is so bloody tedious these days, especially since these post-operative symptoms made a re-appearance to remind me that I’m not supposed to be doing anything strenuous (whatever that means.) I feel like a tinder box waiting for a spark hot enough to set me smouldering again. My encounters with donkeys, hedgehogs and bats help a bit, but it never lasts long because they’re quite impervious to invitations for coffee.