What beauty there is in emptiness.

In the in-between moments —
on a bench,
in a queue,
on the tram.

The dead spaces have a way of surprising you.

Take pleasure in the details.
The greasy patches on a pizza box, the texture of a napkin. Watch the glow of a streetlamp break apart inside a plastic cup.
Admire the spit-stained corners — they have stories to tell.

Let yourself drift.

Imagine everyone around you as characters in an animated film.

Coraline is on FaceTime.

A date between Frankenstein’s lad and a werewolf girl straight out of the new Wednesday.

While I’m sweating in my faux-fur coat in the queue, I admire the delicate pink strands in her blonde bob.
They’re ordering small coffees to take away.
Frankie even lets his café latte go cold while he waits for a tall cappuccino to land on the counter.

Then they disappear together into the dark blue hole that „Svoboďák“ has become as night falls.

Coraline is still waiting, the plastic bags rustling in her clenched hands. I want to stand closer to her because one of the croissants is still warm.
And that can only mean one thing — an intoxicating smell of chocolate and butter.
I discreetly lean across a man who’s far too well-groomed not to be gay.
Yep.
He smells lovely.
I quickly sway back to the other side and glance out of the window.

Puffer jackets, capri trousers and oversized jackets are heading out for the evening.

I’d been shivering in the studio all morning, so I’m choosing to see this overheated wait as a blessing.
At least my bones are getting a chance to thaw.

When the grande cappuccino finally lands on the counter,
I can’t move.
I almost take root in the depressingly grey floor.

The world stops for a moment.

Or does it?

Coraline has gone too.

I can’t take another dose of heat — which is probably why they’ve invented yet another environmentally questionable thing: the cardboard coffee sleeve.
I can never get the bloody thing open on the first attempt.
I cram my short fingernails into the folds — claws would come in handy right now.
One more squeeze on either side and the sleeve is ready.
I slide the half-litre cup into it and make a dash for the door.

Every now and then, one of those little „Večerníček“ caps whizzes past. A Wolt or Bolt rider goes by.
Foodora, occasionally.
Bliss.
Just watch out for scooter riders.
And scooters.
And creeps.

„Štatl“ is crawling with them.
The trick is knowing how to tell the dangerous ones from those who are simply being themselves.
Best not to sit down on „Svoboďák“.
I take my own advice and head back in the other direction.
Detours — another form of in-between time.

The bench outside Husa is free.
Lovely.
Watching the street theatre is quite literally a cultural experience.

And before I take a sip, I remember that wonderfully twisted scene from Ally McBeal — coffee is meant to be savoured.
I bring my nose to that tiny hole in the lid.
Yes. That’s it.
First sip.

Find a steady plank on the bench — third from the back. Nobody sitting anywhere near me.
Time to roll my pink Pueblo into a little paper butterfly. The screening is about to begin.

A woman stops by an empty pub table to photograph someone else’s empty pint glass.

Another woman — a little more polished, around the same comfortably grown-up age — casually hops off the pavement onto the kerb and bounces along it for a bit.

Two bearded men in worn-out hoodies, sprawled on deckchairs with their properly chilled Platan 11s.
Not a word between them.
The contents of their carrier bags remain a mystery.

Wandering headphone people. Asleep, practically falling face-first into the pavement, yet somehow still walking.
Perhaps they’re being controlled by hidden chips in their Marshalls.

The canvas-bag housewives.
Of course they have handbags too, but you can fit the shopping in a canvas tote.

Doggos.

The occasional stray junkie.
There has to be one, after all — where else is there left to sleep?
In this concrete paradise, only dust seems to have
a place.

Couples, all dressed up, on their way to dinner or heading back from it. Showing off a new coat.
Or simply getting a bit of fresh air.

I’m pouring coffee down my throat and have absolutely no desire to go back.

An empty, veiled sky.
Bells and a slowly emptying square.

Give me coffee and I’ll go to sleep.
Can’t. I’ll leave the bench to the beach boys with their empty Platan bottles.

And so the artificial lights, the smell of deep-fat fryers and piss carry me home. 

A cowboy without a hat is trying to sing: „Paže Daniely.“

Oh, „Paže Daniely“ — he’s absolutely dreadful.
I immediately drown him out with my own version — a sexy rasp.
I’m rather surprised by how good it sounds. 

I let him serenade me all the way home.
The voice of my beloved.
It carries me home. 

I’ve had quite enough in-between time.
Now it’s time for some homemade treats.