The world, like clockwork

She came into the cafe again. All the words I would say to her and her to me unfurled in my mind -- again.

Hello, I'd say.
Hello, she'd say.
And we'd talk. And it would be fine. But then she'd say it. A little something, something innocuous, something small, something about me, something that I hadn't told her yet. Something impossible.
So. So I sit here stirring eddies into my coffee and staring at her ass. Blueberry muffin and espresso to go.
"Blueberry muffin and espresso to go," she tells rather than asks the cashier. She stands off to the side and reads one of the health magazines on the sugar table.
The world, like clockwork. Press this button and top up-
"Top up?"
"No, thanks."
"Alright dear."
-that happens, everything in working order, buttons pressed with predictable outcome and noticeable patterns and if you don't throw a spanner in the works or pull too hard on the strings everything will work and you might be able to go on pretending that something isn't very, deeply, fundamentally, wrong.
But that's bullshit.
Sometimes I walk into a room before the people remember to move.

Quis dividir esse trecho (muito bom, por sinal) de algum anon que certamente há de ser escritor algum dia. E é uma pena, porque não sei como continua nem se verei o livro publicado quando esse 'algum dia' chegar . Mais em: http://boards.4chan.org/lit/. Have fun!