Perch

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Every day I sit here from morning till noon. I order a small breakfast, a tea with free refills of hot water and I read or write or just stare out of the window. My ears enjoy the familiar playlist of songs that lull me into believing that I matter, that I am or at least could be as interesting a constituent of the world as the world itself. And then I realize that this is what privilege is; the luxury, the freedom to think anything you want for as long as you want without reality blindsiding you. Because reality sits outside the air-conditioned café with a tiny baby that cries intermittently and who is then put back to sleep or stupor I don’t know which because I don’t know if the baby is in fact hers. There’s a different woman almost every day, (not that I look at them carefully enough to know for sure) but I have a melancholic suspicion that the baby is the same one.

Privilege casually walks in through the door adorned with potted plants. It sits on cushioned seats or high-perched stools (something that can pretend to be comfortable only in a café with an expensive looking coffee machine), opens its sleek laptops, gossips about in laws, dissects the latest fashion exhibition, gets on long, serious conference calls, has client meetings, and then walks back out of the botanical door. This time privilege is wary of reality’s outstretched begging palms and so the walk is brisk. Or maybe it’s just the Columbian blend coffee.