VIolet

Violet

Sometimes the noon changes before my eyes. Not everyone notices. Everyone is either sipping on coffee or remembering sexual moves. I, however, watch the strong white of the sky give way to a moist violet. I become aware that the ancient ghost dancers are mourning again, revealing their ancient grief.

Some of them have beautiful faces, and some have their faces wrapped in thin violet masks. Not all of them can sing, but the ones who do always sing of

       love

           and 

               murder. 

On noons like this, I start feeling defenseless, and I too order a coffee.

Slowly, the noon turns white again, the soccer on the television starts making sense again, and the waitress comes with my order. I do notice, however, that she wears a faint violet on her lips.

(a special thanks to RBC)

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