Sometimes the noon changes before my eyes. Not everyone notices. Everyone is either sipping on coffee or remembering sexual moves. I, however, watch the strong white of the sky give way to a moist violet. I become aware that the ancient ghosts are mourning again, revealing their ancient grief.
Some of them have beautiful faces, and some have their faces wrapped in thin violet masks. Not all of them can sing, but the ones who do always sing of love and murder.
On noons like this, I start feeling defenseless, and I too order a coffee, my finger tapping on the space between miracle and ruin.
Slowly, the noon turns white again, the soccer on the television starts making sense again, and the waitress comes with my order. I do notice, however, that she wears a faint violet on her lips.
-Inam Hussain Mullick