brunaburton, Joe Nigel Coleman, youcancallmekristin, evanfred.
It was in a quaint Turkish café on 28th Street that I first met Igor. Well, not met exactly. Noticed. The room was abuzz. He was a lanky, gangling bird-of-a-man, with dark hair combed back tightly from an unusually high forehead. Behind the ears the darkness streaked grey, though he couldn’t have been more than thirty. His skin was smooth and thin, like new tissue paper. He was pale, so pale, with eyes of light slate. Eyes of light slate. Whether I truly recall this from the café is unclear to me now, but upon our re-encounter this became, for me, his defining feature. The first time it was a cotton sock. Brow deep-set, furrowed. A delicate shirt buttoned fast and high about a crane-like neck; the wrists, too, swathed tightly in silk. Perhaps the best way of describing Igor was through his exaggerations.
He sprawled out from behind a large table; alone, attracting mild looks of disapproval from the waiter. It was a red-velvet, throne-seat establishment, and Igor had only a single cup of coffee before him. A long black, which he sipped at tenderly and stirred with a long, thin spoon. A tangle of papers and newspaper clippings surrounded him like marigolds. He scribbled furiously, and in short bursts, into a leather-bound notebook. Outside it was cold and blistery; I could feel the winter pressing against the window panes. The flames of the open hearth licked at their own reflection in the glass.
Igor coughed delicately into a handkerchief, holding it to his lips for a moment; his eyes flew up to meet mine. A spindly, black-slacked leg slid out from beneath the tabletop, the fabric inching up just enough for the flash of white to catch my eye and hold it fast, like a brass hook. It was so delicate, all milky and herringbone stitch, I could have cradled it. It was inexplicable. My gaze followed it upwards, over the frilled edge and up past the trouser knee – then the chestnut of the table, then the eyes again. They contained a challenge. Dismayed and embarrassed, I turned back to my falafel. It had lost its appeal. Fumbling in my shirt-pocket, I left twenty dollars by the plate and slunk away, without looking back.
Image by Jorge Bonelli.
Hello all - indeed, I'm back! A philosophy degree and a move to Europe later, I finally have the time to sink my teeth back into this project. When I logged onto the Flickr group last week, there were THIRTEEN HUNDRED photos awaiting me, so I beg your forgiveness if I don't get the time to look at them all. There were so many that I loved, but I'm going to start with these:
Thanks to Joe Nigel Coleman, Kerena P Photography, aaananana and idea (Rent A Moose). And special thanks to all who kept submitting despite my absence which, as promised, was only temporary! I can't wait to get zining with these. x