Sunday, November 05, 2006

fly on the wall.

I haven't written about her in a while even though that's why I originally started this journal, over a year old now - maybe I've just stopped noticing those idiosyncrasies that were once so appealing, or maybe I'm sick of writing. It's too hard. I don't know. Somehow tonight I'm taking note the nice things about her again. They way that the silence of the car park is broken by the sliding doors which open to warm friendly banter, broken Italian, syncopated footsteps and cars whooshing - people sounds. It's what makes the place come alive.

I'm standing behind a couple as we go up the smooth escalator - the one without steps. She is small with dreadlocks and a colourful scarf wrapped around her head and he is tall, lanky and neatly packaged behind shiny combed hair and sensible glasses. They laugh at some sort of in joke and I smile to myself. I like the juxtaposition - in high school they would have been mortal enemies.

As always I am late, not quite fashionably, more just plain old late - but I stop to look at the too expensive shoes in the window anyway before fighting my way through the cinema crowd and then linger to listen to the scraggly old man play Mozart on his violin outside the complex. There is quite a crowd gathered around him as he sways to his own playing, and even the dreadlocked girl and her unassuming friend are huddled together watching and listening as well. The melody drifts along the street getting caught in amongst the gentle sounds of the tyres along the road. Groups of people wander through the gathered crowd, glancing over their shoulders at the musician as they walk past. Urban classical, this music becomes, over the top of the traffic. I look at my watch and I too make my way through, past violin man and over the road to the restaurant where I can't hear him anymore.

Everyone is already waiting and I make my apologies as I sit down. There is quite a crowd in the place and a big one waiting outside too. I order some red - I don't usually drink red, but tonight it seems somehow right, besides I really need it. Bugger the headache. Everyone is talking loudly to counter the other patrons - it's a clinking, shouting, glass dropping, storytelling, boisterous laughter extravaganza. Everyone has their elbows on the table and is dipping their bread into their soups or sauces and talking with their mouths full. This is really how eating should be; involved, relaxed, enjoyable and social, non? Leave the white tablecloths and clinking crystal to the pompous arses. I like tables that have scratches and dents on the surface.

#2 has bought a house, G is worried that her job will become obsolete should there be a change in government and M is telling of how one of her students made a website detailing that they wanted to sleep with her. Teenage boys are dumb, we all agree.

We finally leave the restaurant and another group of girls hungrily grab our table. Our bizarro twins? Maybe. Everyone is talking at once as we make our way down the street, past the bookstore, past the bakery and over the road again. Violin guy is still playing his urban classical string melodies and they too meander behind us as we wander towards a suitable place for a coffee. So many endless possibilities.