Vignette

It’s been raining all day, and if the sky hasn’t run out of rain, it’s probably because the rain is so light. Light, yet steady. Raindrops fall like snow flakes from the grey expanse of up above; walking through the drizzle with an umbrella, you do not even hear the pitter-patter of droplets hitting the brolly. Yet by the time you reach your destination, you find yourself wet from the rain, from your jeans all the way to your chest. There is a sheen of rain on you, and you don’t even know where it came from.

In the warmth of a cafe you ask for a flat white (single shot) and a plain croissant to be toasted. The croissant comes with only a knife: that strikes the core of how the day has so far been suspended in time. Ah, culture. Who needs a fork to eat pastry with anyway? Eat with your hands; use a knife for help if you must, but your hands are for you to eat with. Food tastes best from your fingers, because you taste texture twice. 

Do you pour water from the pitcher with mint leaves, or the one with lemon slices?