I've been wanting a bit of dessert for days.
Did I want the coconut cake from Cafe Patachou
or did I want to go up to The Flying Cupcake for,
well, cupcakes? Instead, I went to the
on East Washington Street, right between a bar
and an art gallery. A group of people sat at the front
table, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight
pouring through the window.
The building, gutted and restored
to create this space, reminded me of all the
stories I've read about artists sitting
in Parisian cafes discussing the latest
in avant-garde art or sharing their
poetry over tiny cups of espresso.
I had a bowl of Graeter's black cherry
chocolate chip ice cream.
Gawd, I'm a sucker for that stuff.
Even among all the pies and cakes, the ice
cream sang a siren's song.
Teaspoon by teaspoon, I luxuriated
in my little fantasy of being
in a French cafe, wiling away a bit
of the afternoon as poets
and writers argued some philosophical
point, and imagined great art
hung in the gallery next door. *Sigh.*