Dresden
2004-09-05 06:31:03 UTC
"There it is: The CoffeeHouse Amethyst..."
I pull off of the hardtop road into the empty parking lot, cut
off the ignition on the old Matchless/Norton motorcycle which has
carried me throughout the day and into this night. It has delivered
me outside of a not so unfamiliar place. At least anymore, it being
unfamiliar.
The engine ticks as it starts cooling down, a slight smell of
fuel from the Amal carbs. Leather creaks; a chorus between my jacket
and the seat, a duet often played but never finished. Stand swings
down and a swift pull puts the bike up to rest.
I fish out a crumpled pack of smokes, Newports, of which I
have a weakness for. I manage to find one unbroken, a miracle
considering their residence in my front pocket. The Zippo lighter
flashes itself in a chrome arc against my pants leg and unfailingly
sparks to life. With a *snap* it smothers itself. Smoke is drawn in,
the cool rush of menthol across my tongue.
I walk towards the door, feet crunching hollowly through the
gravel lot. I am not expecting any one to greet me and am not
disappointed. Hand upon the knob and a slight unproductive twist
tells me that maybe I have come too late, maybe the derelict
appearance extends far past the front façade.
Looking down, there is a light coat of dust upon my palm...
I pull off of the hardtop road into the empty parking lot, cut
off the ignition on the old Matchless/Norton motorcycle which has
carried me throughout the day and into this night. It has delivered
me outside of a not so unfamiliar place. At least anymore, it being
unfamiliar.
The engine ticks as it starts cooling down, a slight smell of
fuel from the Amal carbs. Leather creaks; a chorus between my jacket
and the seat, a duet often played but never finished. Stand swings
down and a swift pull puts the bike up to rest.
I fish out a crumpled pack of smokes, Newports, of which I
have a weakness for. I manage to find one unbroken, a miracle
considering their residence in my front pocket. The Zippo lighter
flashes itself in a chrome arc against my pants leg and unfailingly
sparks to life. With a *snap* it smothers itself. Smoke is drawn in,
the cool rush of menthol across my tongue.
I walk towards the door, feet crunching hollowly through the
gravel lot. I am not expecting any one to greet me and am not
disappointed. Hand upon the knob and a slight unproductive twist
tells me that maybe I have come too late, maybe the derelict
appearance extends far past the front façade.
Looking down, there is a light coat of dust upon my palm...