METANOIA

KAFKA

Wide-eyed and mouth agape, Misha stood and stared at him in utter disbelief. He finally found his voice and shouted, "That's it!?!?!"

Silas shrugged, "That's it."

Misha rushed on, "You didn't ask her to come and see your etchings, ask her to fix your leaking pipe, heck, heck even offer her a glass of fucking water?!? Any lame fucking excuse to make her walk a few meters into your room?"

Silas said, puzzled, "Ask her to fix my leaking pipe?"

Misha looked disgusted. "Any lame enough excuse to make her walk about ten feet would have done it!"

Silas' face said no.

Misha shifted and laughed out loud as he drilled it in. "So you got the girl of your dreams, more or less, to spend an entire night with you, covered like all the topics two people can talk about, got her to drive you to your sketchy hotel, got her out of the car to accompany you to the entrance, and froze?"

Silas was embarrassed, "Yeah you pretty much nailed it..."

Misha said, "Who the fuck are you, and what did you do with Silas?"

Silas just stared at the floor numbly.

Misha said, "My bad; this was exactly what I should have expected you to do."

They were sitting at Café Kafka, a café and a used bookstore combined. There was a wall that split the café down the middle. One side was open to all, and the other was intended for quiet study and had a stage reserved for various events that took place there. The café also served alcohol and hosted exquisite wine tasting events.

The name just didn't fit. There wasn't a trace of Kafka's dull atmosphere here. The place was crowded with all sorts of characters. You really didn't know what to expect when you arrived. It could be a poetry reading, a small concert, a letter writing event, wine-tasting, improv comedy, modern dance, silent study...

This place had seen it all.

Today, though, Kafka was acting as a photo gallery.

Glossy pictures of a local photographer waved about gently each time someone opened the front door.

On the window beside him, Silas could see the ghostly reflection. It looked like Kafka was looking directly into his eyes. He turned around to see the original poster, which turned out to be a crudely drawn illustration of Kafka's face.

Misha said, "The fuck are you lookin' at?"

Silas turned back to him with a smile but was glad he didn't tell him the rest of the story. He thought back on the most embarrassing latter half.

The part, when he headed back to the door, keycard in hand, and was about to unlock the door of his hotel room with the burning realization he had just missed the opportunity of a lifetime. L'esprit de l'escalier. He had slid the keycard in halfway when Lisa called out to him from her car, "Here, have a final cigarette with me."

He stopped and pulled back the card. They locked gazes as he moved toward the car. Lisa took the cigarette from her own lips and handed it to him. Their faces were in close proximity as Silas leaned into the car.

She lit his cigarette up for him when he said, like a fucking idiot, and I quote, "It's soggy."

He didn't just ruin the moment, but rather he had taken a steaming pile of shit on it as well. Lisa was sincerely apologetic, "I'm sorry; it was in my mouth."

Silas made a pathetic attempt to correct the situation by saying, "As long as it's your saliva, I don't really mind."

Fucking genius...