Time Travel Lunch

Tourists in jogging wear. Red puffed and pink faces. Sweat smell. Fingers pointing at us ants in Europe. They travel from their enormous buildings. Gigantic fridges. Cars that are tanks. Here they can see the sky. They can use their legs to climb stairs. To breathe, to heave. At the table they use memory. Use the wrong words. Use fingers. I glance around the restaurant and at the tables there are stories being lived. A woman with a half peeled orange and a black eye. She lifts her wineglass. She has been to a party and not gone home. Her eyes don’t want to let the last day finish. Plates scrape. A waiter brings a cheese from the display fridge. They send it back. Its cold. A man with a paper stands up and a piece of bread drops, he doesn’t notice, walks to the toilet, the room is quiet: you can hear the piss. A waiter in his rumpled uniform places the bread back in the basket. Next to me are a couple who eat without words, is it a comedown from psychedelics or are they mute? She gives him a look, he spoons a mouthful into her mouth, she chews. The couple who sent back the fridgey cheese both raise their arm to signal the dishevelled waiter. He puts on his glasses to examine the bill while the wife stares at him with the card held in her fingers. This card pays for the dreams they air on television. Adverts from banks. Borrowed money to see somewhere you don’t want to live. The money is seldom seen. Often mentioned. The half peeled orange rolls across the floor as the woman starts to sleep. The wordless couple smile, look at the orange, the cold cheese, the table of plates. The waiter fills the sleeping woman’s glass. Does she live here? Next to the toilet with paper walls? The waiter goes behind the bar. He talks out loud to the kitchen. Who understands if they can’t speak? He runs a hand through his hair, coughs, drops the bills at the tables. Out of this room is the rest of the city, in real time. I leave my money on the table not sure if i’m ready for 2023. This cocoon was 80s, the time dried and stained. He stands by the door sucking in smoke. Says his lines. The movie not yet out of rehearsal.