This is the third café story that I wrote during my recent trip to Berlin. The gods willing, I'm off again next week for another visit. I hope to gather more stories while I am there.
He’s obviously derives much pleasure in hearing himself speak. More so than listening to what the other two at the table have to say.
Speaking forcefully, vehemently, he expounds upon the charms of New York, while sitting in a charming café in the middle of Charlottenburg in Berlin. The sun is shinning. The cappuccino lush. Where does this pompous old fool find the energy to continue his tirade?
His table guests try to change the direction of his bitter words. First, by posing leading questions towards other directions. These, he ignores. Then, they offer light humour. An insult to his immense (ego) intelligence.
He snaps his fingers impatiently at the waitress. More bread. His soup is not quite to his satisfaction. His table guests slide into their own conversation, while he arranges things to his satisfaction. He interrupts their conversation to complain about mundane idiosyncrasies of his life. Their facial expressions become strained. Not noticing, he continues on and on.
His voice carries across the room and invades my solitary side order of salad. Making me close my eyes and feeling his abrasiveness scrap across my mind. Leaving traces of irritation.
I wish him well. I wish him gone.