The Old Man and His Craft
A cup filled with coffee stays untouched on the table. It has been there for three hours now and no one, not even the person who served it, dared touch its fine porcelain handle carved with the ingenuity of an old man in a glass shop.
The old man in the glass shop does not have any idea where this particular cup has gone and does not know where all his other cups have gone. He continues making them, continues to use that knife and chisel that have contributed to the scars and bruises on his two hands, well, before he lost his right hand to the glass cutter. He stays seated on his small Mahogany stool while all the cups he has made get taken out of the cupboard, put on a table and washed in the sink.
Someone left the cup there in the cafe, someone who took the menu from the small wooden container by the doorside, walked to a corner table, sat on a corner chair and gently fumbled through the pages. Someone raised his hand to signal the waiter and someone said, “A cup of cappuccino, please.”
Someone waited for his cup and waited and waited and waited some more…
And then a ring. Someone heard a ring. Someone answered the call and Someone rushed out to the other side of the street where the old man who was sitting on his stool fell down as he cried out in pain. There was an ache in his heart and Someone, Someone said, “Oh father!”
*spontaneous writing*I don’t even know why I wrote this/why it was written this way/I have yet to figure it out.