Red Room
Through the cafe window two lovers can be seen. There they sit silently in a red room.
In the mid-afternoon’s light the invisible air between them is stale, few words push through
the chasm in front of their bodies. There is no movement or emotion in her face, but an
artificial smile can be seen slowly blotting out his blank expression.
Staring in from the outside there are a thousand question an onlooker could ask. A thin
shred of glass set in the wide window frame is the only separation between two entirely
different worlds, that of loveless lovers, and that of a chaotic city.
In the red room, the only movement that is visible is their breath, the steady in and out of
their lungs, rise and fall of their chests, the only pattern they share. But besides that it’s not
hard to see that they are a million miles apart.
And it’s easy to forget that they are two in a room of twenty. Around them people
rush and push their meaningless words out into the open, yet they’re not noticeable. A
wordless conversation fills the room to the brim, drowning all of them out not with
movement or sound but with something bigger.
With a shy motion the two are alive again, his hand slowly beginning to promenade across
the table’s white linen to lightly brush hers.
“I should start home.” Her words lazily float across the stagnating air.
“Then, maybe we can talk later, just you and I?” His words meet hers two seconds later.
“And if we do will you speak? Or, just once, show an emotion or that you’re still alive.”
As she finishes her sentence she carefully stands and traipses from the room to the only exit, a set of burgundy swinging doors. Starting up the street, she is gone moments later having
quietly disappeared into the burnt oranges and reds that paint the trees of the city’s lonely
park.
Now through the window any onlooker can see one of two lonely lovers. He sits in a
red room in a small cafe where questions flood the air, but there is no where that the answers
can be found.
(Ignore the retarted spaceing.)
In the mid-afternoon’s light the invisible air between them is stale, few words push through
the chasm in front of their bodies. There is no movement or emotion in her face, but an
artificial smile can be seen slowly blotting out his blank expression.
Staring in from the outside there are a thousand question an onlooker could ask. A thin
shred of glass set in the wide window frame is the only separation between two entirely
different worlds, that of loveless lovers, and that of a chaotic city.
In the red room, the only movement that is visible is their breath, the steady in and out of
their lungs, rise and fall of their chests, the only pattern they share. But besides that it’s not
hard to see that they are a million miles apart.
And it’s easy to forget that they are two in a room of twenty. Around them people
rush and push their meaningless words out into the open, yet they’re not noticeable. A
wordless conversation fills the room to the brim, drowning all of them out not with
movement or sound but with something bigger.
With a shy motion the two are alive again, his hand slowly beginning to promenade across
the table’s white linen to lightly brush hers.
“I should start home.” Her words lazily float across the stagnating air.
“Then, maybe we can talk later, just you and I?” His words meet hers two seconds later.
“And if we do will you speak? Or, just once, show an emotion or that you’re still alive.”
As she finishes her sentence she carefully stands and traipses from the room to the only exit, a set of burgundy swinging doors. Starting up the street, she is gone moments later having
quietly disappeared into the burnt oranges and reds that paint the trees of the city’s lonely
park.
Now through the window any onlooker can see one of two lonely lovers. He sits in a
red room in a small cafe where questions flood the air, but there is no where that the answers
can be found.
(Ignore the retarted spaceing.)