The girl that makes his morning coffee has a newly acquired power over him. She is the first face he sees, other than that in the mirror while he brushes his teeth, and the recipient of his first morning words. Occasionally she forgets the sugar and it makes the morning bitter. Once, she burnt the milk and it made him miss his tram and a morning meeting. She asked him last week if he’d like to go for a drink when she finished work. Despite her beauty and intrigue, he denied.
The past four months has seen a considerable amount change as a result of his infractions - he drinks more, sleeps less, and reads up on Japan. More recently, he has been wondering why, when there are so many possibilities, must he writhe over just one? After all, there were 1.7 billion other women still to meet. To buy a drink, invite to the zoo, smell, film chasing pigeons, share a massaman and the ensuing colonary explosion with. There were still 1.7 billion possibilities.
This recent thinking served to remind him that both Dostoevsky and his uncle were wrong. It contradicted the memory of a postcard he once sent that explained an over-stimulated mind, simplified by one thought. It put to ease the waking fear that the same thought would be lost, and again he would have to think.
Tomorrow he hopes to have his morning coffee and then a drink with a beautiful and intriguing waitress. He hopes that tomorrow he will finish an entire meal without pausing for a cigarette to think.
