Autumn
There were days when it seemed to John that life was dull and painful and had always been that way. Other times, when he had felt other ways, drifted away and grew less saturated in his mind’s eye.
But October seemed to change that, from the very first day. The cold, but also the seven terns poised at the edge of the river, staring out. The way that some but not all of the vines were red, and the cloudiness on the surface of the wild grapes that climbed the graying saplings.
This is why people cluster around a fireplace, even a candle: they are trying to warm some cavern within that has felt empty in a chill, through moments of wildness when belief in magic doesn’t feel like a choice at all.
Walking past a small Italian restaurant on the way home John feels drawn to it. There are candles glowing on every table. He stops to watch them through the window without knowing why, pushes inside with thoughts of red wine and hot soup.
There are only a few customers, and none at the marble bar lit with small red-shaded lamps. As he is choosing a seat, a beautiful man with astonishing lips, curls, and eyes emerges from the kitchen and pours him a glass of red wine without saying a word.
Cheeky, thinks John, taking a sip and watching him walk away.
The man returns a moment later with a steaming bowl of soup and a basket of breadsticks.
“How did you know?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” the man replied. “I observe.”
