His world is a sensuous one. He can’t touch the paintings hanging quietly and aloof in the museum with his hands, but he caresses them with his mind. He almost literally runs his fingers over the texture of oil curling from canvas and dips himself in the pastel calmness of the water colours.
Later, after a noon jaunt in a chic boutique looking a shawl for a friend he slips into a quiet nook of books hidden among the concrete and glass monsters. The sudden silence of the place fascinates him. All the door did was close, and then all he can hear is the old shopkeeper clacking keys on his computer and the mad noisy world rushing itself to bits outside reduced to a mollifying hum. A mote of dust shines as it floats across a shaft of sunlight. It almost sings.
His bus follows the sun across the city and into the west. As the yellow lamp lights take the night, he steps off the bus into a hip cafe crowded with the young intelligentsia of his ilk. He weaves through the crowd for a latte and catches slivers of conversation. Familiar words, like “heritage”, “sustainable”, “democratic”, “cognitive dissonance” and “subjective/objective”.
A lively beat suffuses the space. He smiles to himself. He’d heard it a good three months back while scouring the net for new sounds. He finds his friends. One offers him a smoke. He declines. He’d quit two months ago. It’s still difficult, yes, but it’ll get better. He feels the air is fresher now, or as fresh as it can get in the city anyhow. They laugh and jab into the government’s inadequacies for the week.
Night settles like a tea cosy over the humid air. The buses stop close to midnight in this city. Before long, friends say goodbye and promise to meet up again, at this party or that art launch. Don’t forget, someone calls out, don’t forget to pen your opinions to the minister, lobby him to fix the transport system. He shouts back, all right, as he makes a mental note of it and steps backwards out of the cafe. He pops his earphones on for the ride home.
