Once, then, a time.

He’s a juggler.

The desk is level, a wine glass – almost empty, just a dribble – sits there upon.

A bottle of wine – not (empty) – sits on the floor beside his foot. 

The glass is heavy, nice to throw. 

He tests it.

The bottle is also heavy, ready to move vertically.

The glass could be pushed, rather than thrown - vertically… and the bottle could be pulled – vertically - to the level of the desk or plus, then as the glass descends it could be stopped on the desk-top at the same moment the wine bottle is interrupted in flight, tipped, and wine would be poured into glass, glass picked up and wine swallowed.

It would probably necessitate two hands.

Minimum.

One hand only would render the whole enterprise worthy of applause.

He picks up the glass.

It feels good. 

He repeats it.

Moves a few things – bottle opener, books, glasses case.

(He is wearing his glasses).

He tests the bottle.

Drops it and the wine spills across the carpet.

An angry wet stain the shape of a pointing, accusative finger.

He used to be a juggler.

That Sort of Day.

The person serving in the café today is not a young man.

He’s slow, but not because he can’t hurry. He just doesn’t need to - so he takes his time.

He prepares the coffee with care, offers the customer the cakes and lets them choose the slice size.

He selects the appropriate plate from many contenders for the title.

And from time to time he looks out the window and watches the people passing by in the street.

I am sitting to one side, near the back. I can see out of the window as well and I can watch him watching. I’ve chosen a large slice of carrot cake, and a glass of chilled white wine.

I didn’t intend the wine, but as I was deliberating over the cake someone asked for one, took it outside and sat in the sunshine. 

Her doing this piqued my interest in the grape.

She had a good choice of dog too, a white Spaniel/Labrador cross sat by her side.

“What’s his name?”

“Oslo.” 

Good choice in names too.

The cake and wine slip down easily and I take a pencil from my bag and begin to sketch in the open book in front of me.

It’s that sort of day.

A day when you try.

The person serving is trying too, though in an unhurried, careful way. 

The coffee machine has stopped functioning as it should.

“It delivers a fine cup of hot water,” he explains to someone who is trying to help. “But the grinder doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t what?” she demands, a little frustrated.

“Grind.” He has a wonderful aura of patience; it is difficult to imagine anything that would make him snap.

“It’s never done that before?” she snaps.

“I think you mean ‘it’s never not done that before’.” His humour clears the air of frustration settling around her like a cloud and she laughs.

You can see that the elderly man appreciates her laughter. Something in his eyes shines a little brighter.

They are nice eyes.

Not dangerous, though perhaps a little mischievous.

He knows something.

Perhaps his age has allowed him to learn a secret or two.

I will ask him when I finish the sketch.

I too am not in a rush.