Sperre Heart
'Carla's' is like any other diner on 34th. caught in the classic restoration. Modeled on establishments two hundred years back, it has low counters, carpeted floors and paper menus. They don't really fry eggs or char-broil steaks, but what they do prepare a reserved on big ceramic plates and eaten with steel utensils.
Aston sits at one of his usual tables, pulling at his food with a knife and fork and clumsily shoving the shredded scraps into his constantly full mouth. Aston is a young man, say thirty-five. Bald and smooth, he is thin and small-shouldered and has an even, pale color.
The drone of conversation and the clatter of dinnerware linger in the heavy morning air. Conversation is light. Temperaments low. It is a typical workday morning in the city. Aston looks across his table through the glass window of the diner to the street beyond. It is filled with people; people moving from building to building, people leaving and entering transports; people standing in small groups holding off that moment when they must move on. Many look happy. Most talk with those near them. Aston must invent for himself what they are saying to one another. It all takes place in silence on this side of the glass.
As his eyes fall on the cushion of the empty chair across from him Aston stops chewing.
A soft bump of his table sets him in motion again. Three people walk past, mumbling to each other as they tug at their jackets and gloves. Aston's gaze follows them out of the diner. He swallows a thick clump of food as he looks down at his half-eaten meal. A scrap of food swings from his upheld fork.
His clean, smooth features are fractured by a look of frustration as he is frozen in his own thoughts.
"Breakfast is a same run. Same plate twice this week. Load it in. I breakfast here all days pre-work."
Aston looks to the street, his fork still held high. People are swarming through an opaque doorway in the building across the street.
"There I business Western New World products. Shit it out.",he hangs on his thought silently.
After one long last gulp of beverage Aston fumbles for coinage from his bag and tosses it on the table. As the coins spin and slide on the ceramic tabletop he is quickly out the door of 'Carla's' and pulled into the vortex of people flowing towards the building across the street. He stops and deliberately looks up. People gently collide with him as they continue moving forward. He does a slow two-step across the river of people as he heads for the safety and quiet of the street corner.
Aston looks at the base of the Western New Worldmax-complex. He follows Its gray smooth face as it races high into the sky. Some 400 stories high, its slender top holds one corner of bright blue heaven with its neighbors, precious sunlight squeezed into the maze of walkways, below. Glowing lamps on the sides of the building wash street-level in a warm gray-orange glow. Aston stands on a small sliver of sunshine at his feet. His shoes glow brightly. With his gaze at his feet he follows the narrow carpet of light up the walkway about a meter where it ends in a sharp point.
"The failing of Friday is the weekend is next. The advantage of Tuesday is you have someplace to go. Something for the time. The Weekend; three days long of fun... well, not me."
In his silence he looks up. Ahead of him are a man and a woman with intertwined arms walking in unison towards him. They are bright and smiling and have only the other person in their eyes. Aston slowly steps aside and the couple passes by. As he watches them head across the street people again slowly collide with him from behind as he hangs motionless in his own thoughts.
"Least I have food, and a rent, and no-low health rating. Psyche reads 'tolerance'. Politically astute. Fitted in. But not kept here."
Aston retraces his steps back to the thinning swarm of people moving into the building around the corner. He looks at the profiles of his nameless co-workers with small swift glances to his right and left.
