by LJ Frank

Sunset is a few hours away. I’m sitting in a coffee shop less than a mile off the interstate jotting down notions and sentiments about an upcoming writing project involving a woman and her lover in Montreal; with a saxophone and piano jazz playing a 1930’s song in the background, and a barista mouths the words to the music in quiet; at the next table two women verbally scrapbook their memories reminiscing about a past that aligns with their photographs tucked in their respective bedroom’s armoires; two officers in uniform arrive from a local military base vociferous about weaponized artificial intelligence and shaking their heads in disbelief; a threesome of entrepreneurs two tables away chat about their billboard of imaginary expectations and at one point or another a text message is received and sent; and at small table across the room a man and a woman of indiscernible age simply look into each other’s eyes, both wear sandals showing off their complimenting black toe nail polish, while quiet urgings drip from their trembling lips as they sip their pumpkin spice lattes of desire.

*from the song As Time Goes By, songwriter, Herman Hupfeld (1931)