Time, ain't on my side.

El Stadio/ Wednesday night

Where shall we start this?

I would say – ‘at the beginning’ – but how can we choose one moment out of a continuum?

Exactly.

Did it start yesterday with a reservation, or months before with reading the newspaper and thinking ‘I’ll keep that just in case’?

Let’s begin with the mist.

Why not?

Or the orange juice that preceded it?

If you start there we will have to go back to Mexico and 1978.

That was an exceptionally good cup of coffee.

Early morning like today, a journey’s start….

On a bus that time.

A car this time.

Was there mist?

There must have been, it was the high mountains of Oaxaca before dawn break.

Like today, was that Jupiter, Venus, Mercury?

Certainly one of those.

Did you see the young deer at the side of the road?

I did.

And then, the clock.

That really made me sad, I loved that clock. I’ve looked at it so many times; EVERY time.

That’s why it was there.

Time.

It’s time is over.

It leaves an ugly gash.

Why would someone steal it?

Money, greed; it’s not so hard to explain but clearly they didn’t care for anything it stood for. Service: simplicity, beauty.

Maybe they cared for the beauty?

Selfishly; there, it had been for everyone to enjoy.

It’s like loosing a tooth.

Worse.

It got you down.

I will rise, the mist and streetlight around the first market stall was something.

Wasn’t it? The reds of the cold cuts and the orange sodium glare.

Surreal. My picture does not do it justice.

The woman was worried.

I said hello, explained, she smiled and felt better.

The café was closed.

Yes, I forgot – Wednesday.

The Maison Moulin is open though.

We’ll go there later, it’s a shame Laura and K are not at home.

They are.

At home, here, I mean.

I bet they are fast asleep right now.

Across the ocean. K may be awake, he doesn’t sleep so well these days.

He would be sad about the clock.

I’ll tell him.