Her hair is dark and lays upon her shoulders like a net. All I know are Heather's lips. In the early afternoon, after Heather leaves, I recognize that I have nothing planned for the evening. By the time I clean up, shower and change clothes I just have time to walk over to the cinema and have a cup of coffee in a restaurant before it starts. There are certain symbols that are clearly plain and simple.
Coffee is black and creme is almost white.
The white porcelain cup with the green band around it is round and the hole in the little handle is just big enough for one finger to go through. Sugar is white and sweet, though you wouldn't know that by looking at it. My face, reflected in the window of the shop, looks like coffee tastes after its been standing for an hour or two. Not fresh and strong and potent, but cold and haggard and weak. I have an obsession with an idea.