Today I was searching for a job. It was cold outside. I am in Poland. I was trying to search for features of the city, which I loved from movies, but I could not find them. I could not find neither women nor men who love cinema and the colour red. While walking in the streets I was stopping in front of cafes and restaurants but could not go inside to ask if they have an extra place. There were windows between the people and me. This reminds me of movies of Ken Loach. I could not dare even to ask them. I am not Daniel Blake.
In the city centre I went to my favorite café “Franz Kawka”, I wanted to ask if they had any jobs, but instead of this, I ordered a latte. I was listening to Chopin and observing people in the café. This café is very small and there’s nothing special there, but why do I love it? I love it because of its name. But Franz Kafka is not there. After 15 minutes while having my latte an old French couple came in. A sharply dressed couple who were stylish not only because of their clothes but because of their stories, you could read them on their faces. I do not know French but I was listening to their conversation with the deep interest. The only question I wanted to ask them was if they were in this café because of Franz Kafka. But I could not ask. People are afraid of questions and sincerity. I could not look at them because I feared they could feel my gaze.
I am 24 years old, every time while I’m sitting in a café alone I am always waiting for someone, a stranger for whom to have a conversation. After many years, I will be sitting again and will be waiting for nobody. Next time I will order coffee for myself and for a stranger who will never come. But I will always have a hope that one day someone will join me.
There are two kinds of hope. Hopes, which die and hopes which have no right to die.
I choose the last one, the hopes which are hiding somewhere and you can find them.
I was always wondering the feature of life. You think nothing is happening in your life and after many years you can be that stranger to sit with someone for a coffee and wonder how you can tell your life story. Unconscious observations create the life you will tell the stranger one day.
I was waiting for Kafka to enter the door of a café. He did not come.
I hope this couple was waiting for him too.
Maybe there will be someone, a stranger, who will be interested in my story and will not be afraid of asking.
The last swallow of coffee had a taste of an old story.
I closed the door of this story when I closed the door of “Franz Kawka”.
P.S
Maybe they are still sitting in a café and talking about Kafka.
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