Pikolo espresso on a Montreal Thursday, she waits. Wood counters support bones, knuckles, elbows, plates. Metal feet balance brown with a hint of infinity, things that will stay as things when the people in the café would become things, ideas, do you remember them… Cole painted the objects with words to help place his Self in the room, a person among the things: He called the spotlights, “warm,” as if they could breathe electricity. The other person was late – it was the first time they were to meet sober. They might have already entered the café.
They might have already been there, waiting, listening to a few of the indie songs – would they be excited, or frustrated? How much social capital had he deposited with them, could he withdraw – was he in the right place? Was he living in the right time?
The person behind him, alone, at a table, was reading.
Did the person like to read?
Maybe that was something he should know. The coffee was good. Maybe they wouldn’t get along sober.
The person next to him, at the bar, with an earring, looked at his arm.
Were we supposed to meet, something about watching the world cup, should I leave, it’s been a few minutes.
He looked through his mug.
Aged glass, sweet croissant, a plant stretches fingers towards the barista.
word by Liam Lachance
colour by Inland Studio