espresso

Being trapped in an old nun's convent does have its bonuses. For someone with a head cold in the era of H1N1 I feel a connection with the Europeans century's ago infected with black death. The white walls of my room are becoming smaller and most of my interactions come from hearing what the birds have to say outside my window. Yet I understand the birds song's as well as anyone else who's speaking around me. Both have a rhythmic and charming tone about them, their languages flow with a delicacy that makes listening without understanding a pleasant treat. My small ventures to the quaint pharmacy and market are enchanting but even the short journey's leave me tired and wanting to return to the soft white bed I left only a half hour ago. My mind will always surpass my body under endurance tests, but part of that overexerted brain is thankfull that everything else sat down on the curb and gave that ego of mine the finger. I missed a tour and a boat ride...whatever. Those building will be there next weekend reminds my aching shoulders. What I did not miss was yet another meeting of unlikely characters, and surly that is the only sort that I attract. Drenched in fever I slowly bring myself to the community kitchen in desperate search of the first food I've eaten in hours. My exhausted hands fight with the key to the stubborn pantry, hearing my pitiful whines the man about my age holds out his hand in a gesture of help. He pushes his overgrown hair out of his face and I notice that it matches the color of his deep set and over sized eyes, espresso. His near translucent skin outlines his strange yet alluring features. Before I'm finished staring at what can only be some sort of french vampire, he yanks at the lock and the stupid thing finally opens, well sort of. He pulls the door clean off the hinges, now before this moment I used a combination of shy gestures and basic french to communicate, well in mild panic I forgot all about that. In shocked English i rant "oh my god, oh my god, oh no this is bad.. shit shit.. its not you fault..." he interrupts my freak out with french that could stop a volcano from erupting, and did. Now i couldn't repeat what he said of course but I understood the intention, "call the reception you spaz." I turn to do so and thank him because hey he did get the door open, he waves me off with his dark stare that I'm coming rather fond of. Tonight I return to the same kitchen feeling far less like a leper than the day before and sure enough Mr. porcelain is down there with what I assume is his mother father and little sister. He's joking with her about her pronunciation of french vocabulary and I'm thinking how that same work sheet could probably help me a lot. I make the snitzchel I bought earlier at the market and eat alone in the dinning room. A french dubbed version of desperate housewives has everyone in the room laughing, except me of course, to me its faces I know and words that I don't so I face my back to the television. They all slowly leave the dining room and I clean the mess from dinner. I walk back to my room and with each step my head pounds hard enough to make me squint, but as i reach the staircase I realize someone is standing there. Half a flight up the stairs sure enough dark eyes is there and as I climb closer he starts walking, as if he had always been. I want to think he was waiting for me. We turn down the same corridor, he reaches his door and fumbles with his keys. As I pass he turns his chin towards me and with the first smile I've seen come from his face quietly tells me, " bon soir", I say it back to him but I'm sure it lacks the elegance. I can't help but smile and look down as I walk into my white cave, my sterile jail cell but also my home that I have become rather close with.