Two Pictures of Saturday
Hey, just a quick note, you spelled “truths” wrong. See you spelled it, “verities” which is incorrect. The correct spelling is “truths”.
The First. There is a very handsome family sitting in the corner at Tryst. I cannot stop looking over at them, I truly cannot. A father, a mother, two sons, and a daughter. They wear scarves, dark jeans, and seasonally-hued blazers. The sons wear arty sneakers with flat soles. Except for the father, who is augustly silver, they all have cinnamon-colored hair. There is ease encoded in their every gesture. They are seated on lushly-patterned sofas next to a molded bronze lamp and under a gouache painting of an abstracted bear, which is selling today for $5000. It is almost inconceivable that they arrived here from somewhere else, that they ever existed in any other setting but this one, the one in which the lighting on their features is exquisite and the objects around them are arranged with such easy exactness, like the tables and chairs in a Cubist tableau. In fact it is unclear, on final accounting, whom it is that I actually envy, the family or the beautiful furnishings around them, free from hardship and visited this afternoon by such fine and uncritical company.
The Second. The fellow with whom I am making occasional, abrupt eye contact is having trouble with his French press. He finds pouring his drink difficult because he keeps pulling up on the plunger instead of pushing down, to the point where the filter is flush against the spout and occludes the flow of hot liquid entirely. Sometimes he swirls the press around a little while trying to pour, stubbornly blind to the blemishes in his understanding of the little device’s operation, but certain verities are not so easily dispatched.
