At the Green Line

The houses are close together but there is still greenery, still space, still cracks in the sidewalk with shoots of resilient foliage fighting an endless battle for sun and dirt. Today they need not fight for solar rays since those fall blindingly on the bright pavement tearing my eyes almost instantly especially upon leaving muted indoor lighting, seeming so much more artificial than normal on a day like today. Across the street is the now-wild expanse of trees and bushes and paths that once were probably very prescribed but now have grown into tame wildness, inviting and cool, well-leafed despite the bowls of dust in so many other places. We sit across from each other and avoid prolonged eye contact, instead looking at the slats in the table, the cars lazing by, the breeze in the leaves, the work we've been putting off for hours, and talk about life and love and classics and hope. We talk about the intensity of vision, the power of a glance or a compelling gaze - do we avoid each other's eyes now out of respect for what has transpired previously in our lives, fear of too much openness, or unaccustomedness? Still, I do not mind the lack of intensity. It helps build the luxury of the evening, builds an atmosphere in harmony with the surroundings. We simply choose to exist - sharing a space but partaking of the community - we are as much the furniture of nature as the small tree shading us.