Eggs and Semolina

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It is after the festival. My hair is tasseled and frizzy since the rain washed out my hard work. But I don’t care.

I am waiting for you where I always wait for you. Three weeks ago, I told you where I would be every Sunday, and every Sunday here I am. Today they have Greek coffee, no surar. The grinds float about my cup as I drink, waiting. You won’t like this coffee, I know. But still I wait.

The mud is bitter in my mouth but I relish in it. You won’t understand why I like it this way. This is the way my papa used to make it Sunday mornings while I rolled pasta dough for the week. I smell the thick dough of eggs and semolina between my fingers mingled with the bitter sweet fragrance of caffè and I am brought back to a time when I lived in my heritage. Now I am lost within an arena I cannot understand nor relate to. Perhaps this is silly for me to say that reminiscing doesn’t hurt in it’s own way.

I look up in-between my memories. You still have not walked in. It is foolish to think you are joining me. But I cannot give up. I want to. But I cannot.

I try to sit where I cannot see the window, so I cannot see your car not pull up into the lot. So I cannot see you walking towards the door. So I can get work done, like I’m supposed to be. But alas, I can never work here. Maybe it is the hard chairs or the pounding from the baristas, but my work never is completed here. Today, I did not succeed. I can see the lot, with all the cars; not one of them is yours. My hair falls in my face in an attempt to shield my obsessive staring. It doesn’t help.

You aren’t from a life of heritage and you don’t understand what my olive skin and darker hair mean to me. Boxed potatoes and frozen carrots is dinner to you; laughing at my cringes. Your life cannot be made of refined corn and the neon glow of the highlights in your books. I wish you would meet me so you could see. Walk in that door, smell the grinds, and relish in my seductive smile. I want to show you the rest of the world. It cannot be gray forever.

But you wouldn’t be you, if you walk in that door. Gray might be the only color you ever know.