A victim of somebody else's fetishes

It’s a small place on a non-descript street where people meet to drink and eat till they think they can move back into life. As far as coffee shops go, there is lethargy spilling out of the earthy place. Brown benches placed outside soak in the sun with more dignity than I do. I sweat and squint to look ahead at the table with chess players who laugh, giggle and slap each other. The white floor is littered with cigarette butts. I look at my first cigarette and wonder if I can smoke anymore. The heat brings out the beast in me and there is nothing I would like right now than walk into the air conditioned part and sit with yuppies on bar stools and four chair tables but I can’t. In between the pages on lapis blue, I wonder once again why I never played chess. Why is there more than a glass pane separating me from the yuppies and socializers. I think of the other cigarette and pucker my lips in unconscious despair. I wonder if I am being controlled. Not that I know what’s going to happen. I don’t mind, really. I firmly believe the fun is in the journey and not thinking of the destination is the only way to truly appreciate when you arrive. I wonder if I am being used. There’s the last part of Sirens of Titan playing side my side in my head with the chess players’ ramble and the writings of Madam Victoria Finlay. It would be a sad world if nobody thought of me as worth being used, I supposed. I ask for the time as the sun blinds me with orange in between pages of blue. I ask for time and a grey lipped man turns to his white satin strap, golden dial watch and translates the jewel encrusted needles for me. It’s time to go but I would like to break barriers. I suppose it’s lack of time that keeps me from doing it.