I feel like a cold treat. Ice cream? Water? An Icy Kiss?
Sitting above everyone else eating, I sat eating. Forks pressed against lips feeling the tinge of sterling taken for granted despite hundreds of years using cutlery nearly every day. Social memory failing the masses, I suppose. Eating and talking. They were doing the talking: I, observing.
Comfy chairs by a small fire in the commons as chatty conversations echoed with a low reverb profile; maybe it was recorded in a conversation. A conversation recorded in the commons near a kitchen.
A girl briskly lifted her arm triumphantly holding an umbrella in hand; earlier it was sprinkling I had noticed outside. I was nervous of the glow reflected from the fire off the polystructure of the plastic and metal beams. I wonder who invented the umbrella.
Then – as if it wasn’t obvious through all of the horror stories – she naturally, reflexively pressed the button to shoot the second half of the contraption towards its unfolding; unfolding like a flower shot over the days with the film sped up. It was elegant, but it was work. She didn’t work. The machine worked elegantly.
Instantly, I thought about the superstition. In a second instant I thought about how I wasn’t superstitious. In the next, I questioned how many people at the same exact moment of the umbrella reaching its climax indoors had thought about superstition. Then I asked if they were also not superstitious. In an instant this shot past me. Shot past me like control.
The girls laughed.
I wondered if those instants, that elegance, that reverb, that machine, that sterling, that “that” proved the existence of god.