Not Today

I imagine the great Russian writers that are emerging in contemporary are following in the foot falls of Gogol, Solzhenitsyn, and Dostoyevsky, and are commenting, that all of human history has prepared us aptly for the empty embrace of Stoicism.

He came to the tavern table. Every day an exercise in more or less. Depending on the angle of torture, averted, or of pleasure, unburdened; less is more, or more is less.

The waitress paused, starched black and white, with reserved steaming potential. Something? a brow lifted in askance; a hand waved. Not today.

Thirty others in the cafe, having already lost the debate. Live, the News on TV, big screen or small, blocked by bluetooth headphones. Noise cancelling. Whatever; and it was all the same.

Not like when giving a nickel or a quarter or more, for the paper. Turning grayed sheets took effort. Back in the day. Sometimes a lick of the finger, even, to unstick the fresh layers. The risk of papercut too great.

Yet, he couldn't just sit there, taking up space. A decision had to made, a buy in; an order, given. The menu heavily greased, lay against the grain, clogging the arteries of imagination.

She came back with obligatory water, and post-it-sticky. Politely waited, arm raised, implement sharpened, puncturing the air.

That. "I'll have that," pointing up, indefinitely, towards the scratch pad.

Blank. A fraction of disorientation, a blush, composure, realization of eyes locked, on the pencil---

Not on the menu.

Oh. The upset of the tumbler and a flurry of napkins in profusion of apologetic silence, with one dry serviette saved and... the forgotten instrument.

He picked it up. Should he... write the reflection of emotion?

Hers.

Let it go? or just take it?

03.02.2024

Monthly Philosophy Challenge "Applying Stoicism in 2024" @Prose