For instance, there is an ancient city living in the dark on my tongue. Finally, what once hummed with underground baths, vaults secret as the insidious thoughts of the elected body, will be buried, crushed inward, collapsed under its own misbegotten weight. The other patrons at their tables turn and stare, amused, aghast, but, mostly, entertained. It is hard to keep my overfull mouth shut. Other times, I unclench my teeth, and everyone stops clattering silver, stops stirring coffee spoons, and listens expecting a good story, but what they get, finally, is the ticking of the clock on the ancient square, the ignorant people, each of them at their work behind one thousand windows, blowing glass, stitching leather, filling out the countless forms, which are, after all, necessary to the goings-on of any city.
History is, finally, a strange and unpredictable thing.
It turns on its heel and falls flat when you least expect it to, but, mostly, it is uneventful. This said, I have learned to keep my mouth closed, the back of my tongue pressed firmly to my teeth, as best I can. See, over there, a cockroach balances on the teacup's rim, contemplating, perhaps, the drop on either side. The waiters constantly refill the water glasses. A man at the booth next to ours leans over the table so his tie touches the edge of his plate and says, half seriously to the woman whose long fingers curve around the stem of her glass, If we miss the play, there's always the couch and VCR at my place.