(no subject)
taken from Georges Perec's Species of Spaces and Other Pieces
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4
Or else:
Rough draft of a letter
I think of you, often
sometimes I go back into a cafe, I sit near the door, I order a coffee
I arrange my packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, a writing pad,
my felt-tip pen on the fake marble table
I spend a long time stirring my cup of coffee with the teaspoon
(yet I don't put any sugar in my coffee, I drink it allowing the sugar to melt in my mouth, like the people of the North, like the Russians and Poles when they drink tea)
I pretend to be preoccupied, to be reflecting, as if I had a decision to make
At the top and to the right of the sheet of paper, I inscribe the date, sometimes the place, sometimes the time, I pretend to be writing a letter
I write slowly, very slowly, as slowly as I can, I trace, I draw each letter, each accent, I check the punctuation marks
I stare attentively at a small notice, the price-list for ice-creams, at a piece of ironwork, a blind, the hexagonal yellow ashtray (in actual fact, it's an equilateral triangle, in the cutoff corners of which semi-circular dents have been made where cigarettes can be rested)
Outside there's a bit of sunlight
the cafe is nearly empty
two renovators' men are having a rum at the bar, the owner is dozing behind his till, the waitress is cleaning the coffee machine
I am thinking of you
you are walking in your street, it's winterime, you've turned up your foxfur collar, you're smiling, and remote...