He did the coffee shop bathroom combo, pushing the buttons in with his index finger. Each number blinked red. He finished with the pound sign. The door lock flashed green. He pushed the door open.
He always moved cautiously going into the restroom. People forget to look the door. Or pressed the lock button twice, unwittingly unlocking it. He didn’t want to move in on people. No need for a naked sight today. God knows not many pretty people were at the coffee shop today. He chortled. Including him, if he was honest.
He stopped, holding the door open.
Two people were inside.
On the floor.
Young. Boy and girl.
Blood pooled around them.
His mind recorded it, loading memory.
He closed the door and rushed to the counter, cutting to the line’s front, saw the manager and shouted her name.
Bonnie turned. He jerked his head and waved once. Come on. Shifted toward the bathroom hall.
She looked puzzled but began to follow.
“Bring your phone,” he said.
Then thought. Two bodies. An unlocked door.
He didn’t remember seeing a weapon.
There had probably been a murderer in the coffee house.
He was at the coffee shop. Two men of his age were at the next table. They were trying to remember war movies and their stars, and struggling. He passed on telling them who was in The Great Escape, The Longest Day, Where Eagles Dare, and The Bridge at Remagen. Surprising that he could easily remember all that stuff, he remarked to himself, pleased. Just one of those days.
But he had to step up to the other table when they couldn’t recall the name of the movie with Clint Eastwood, Donald Sutherland, Don Rickles, and Telly Selvales. “Kelly’s Heroes,” he finally called out.
Disappointed and relieved. We’ve had days of buildup about this storm on the way. Well, unlike the Feb & March storms, this one didn’t bother us. Not even on the nearby mountains. Still doesn’t feel like spring out there, though.
It’s 43 F today, Sunday, April 2, 2023. Sunlight is being shy but the clouds have gathered like a clowder of kittens hearing the kibble coming out. High will be 48 F, the weather oracles tell us. I think it might get higher, like 50. A few degrees make a difference in Ashlandia.
I dreamed about cats of my past last night. We — my wife and I — were in the white BMW 2002 we drove in Germany. Pulling off the road, we stopped. We were looking for somewhere, so we got out, asking, “Is this it?” It was a little wiggle of an asphalt road, working through ups and downs between older houses. Suddenly, many floof friends who graced us with their presence appeared, meowing greetings our way. Little Quinn, the fluffy furred gray black foot, was directly behind me when cats we didn’t know emerged and raced toward us. One was a diluted tortie, dashing right for us and Quinn. But tail up, they gave my leg a broadside of fur and went on to Quinn. The two greeted each other like familiars, as did all the cats, presently me with happiness. I mentioned it to my wife but she was walking away, my words unnoticed.
Today’s song is from 1971, by a gifted singer and songwriter named John Prine, who passed from COVID back in 2020. “Hello In There” is about aging and life changes. The Neurons brought it back to me as I watched people at the coffee house and on the streets. Some seemed very old. Now I might be considered old by some, like my wife. She is a year younger than me as she doesn’t fail to remind me. I’m 67.75 years old but as my Mom once answered me when I pointed out that she was getting elderly, “I’m talking about really old people, like 90, or 100.” That was a few years ago. Mom is almost to that age now. Like many, I’m a different age inside, 38 for me. But watching the other folks established in years passing by and pursuing activities, the John Prine song heard in my youth surfaced.
Stay pos and make this Sunday what you want. It’s writing, reading, and shopping for moi. I shall begin with coffee. Here’s the music. It’s a Sunday morning piece, a quiet offering for contemplation.
Michael Seidel, writer 