It is quiet. Things are different now, imperceptibly so, but Pavl remembers the way things were. He— —Remembers the habitual walks to the grimy, all-night kiosk on Narodni Třida for sausage or grease-dripping bramburak, followed by cigarettes and Koffola from the non-stop potraviny at the west-end of Lazarska Street. —Remembers the skater punks cloaked in grunge the color of oil, dust, and hedgehog spines, their hair matted into dreads or teased into rakish, dingy spikes. They cluster (in memory and in reality) like ungainly vultures, ignored by the impermeable mass of travelers waiting for whatever trams will carry them to their various destinations. They beg for tabak, no mater the pedigree. They ask for change. —Remembers the night-trams, especially, because in late, late hours too hot for sleep, he took to the street with thoughts of a walk. To the river. His nerves were twitchy, and in need of some calming, existential unguent. Smoke in some cellar bar held no appeal. The throb of live music was equal in its sullen lack of promise. And so he walked, thinking once—thinking twice—that he should have retrieved his laptop and taken to WiFi hotspots on rooftops or friendly balconies that comforted him on nights devoid of sleep. But he’d left his laptop in power-conserving hibernation beside a clutter of news clippings and crumpled Marlboro hard packs long past empty. With his back to Josefov, and his thoughts elsewhere, he’d passed a stranger: a definite traveler by his poise. American by the swagger in his walk. He smiled. And now, with the spring-time boast of sunlight slanting through a part in curtains not his own, he comes awake to the smell of coffee, and a warmth on his feet that speaks of absent socks. “Cream and sugar?” The voice at his side is unexpected, but welcome. And his thoughts are drawn from the warmth of morning sun on vulnerable flesh, and the idle question of where he'd lain his socks the night before. “Cream,” he answers. “No sugar.” Now, as sunlight catches on motes of dust suspended in the air, he thinks of how things are—of how in those small silences after the answer to a question, things begin to change. It wasn't always this way: —He always awoke alone, without sunlight on his flesh. —He always awoke alone, with no one to speak to. Now...there is sunlight, a voice, and a moment. He holds on to all three, lest they slip—unfelt—into memory, like the lonely nights of yesterday. **** Stuff mentioned in the text: Narodni Třida = A street/metro station in Prague, the "r" with the 'hachek' mark over it is pronounced like the rolling "R" combined simultaneously with the "zh" sound. Czech is the only language that makes use of this linguistic artifact. bramburak = potato panckakes. Koffola = A coffee-flavored cola with a vague, citrus taste as well...it's the Czech answer to Coka Cola, invented during the Communist era and affectionately called "Communist Cola" by English speaking expatriates. potraviny = a small convenience store. *** As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting.