Outside a man is sprinkling the dry pavement with a water hose. He's taking his time, because he's not cleaning it. He's cooling it. Much like a pet owner would give water to a thirsty dog, the man seems to be enjoying his job. The sight of the stones turning darker from the white liquid is pleasing him. When he's done, the man looks satisfied. He smiles and turns away to approach his next task.
Herbie Hancock is playing a fine version of Possibilities while the heavy fan under the ceiling is dispelling the heat. The rough wooden table is large enough to hold my laptop computer, a can of diet coke and a plate of roasted peanuts. The ice cubes in my glass, which are accompanied by a generous slice of lime, are slowly melting away. Now a French voice is singing a chanson and in the kitchen something is being chopped into pieces, maybe a concombre, perhaps an oignon.
It's a hot day, but it's sort of windy, the humidity and the dark clouds are suggesting a tempest. And yet, the sun is fighting its way through the atmosphere and onto our tables, making Tobs' ashtray reflect in many different colours. On days like these I think a lot about life back at home. Words like appreciation and awareness come to mind, also consumption and greed, or possessions and needs. How much of what we have do we really need to be happy?
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