mimesis

The street was a sleepy backwater, a world away from the city’s frenetic pulse. A few motorbikes passed, their engines a distant hum, but for the most part, it was a tranquil scene. Angel’s restaurant, with its promise of air-conditioned comfort and familiar flavors, beckoned from across the street.

There he was, a beacon of misplaced enthusiasm in the sleepy cafe. Nim, all smiles and boundless energy, was already clutching a coffee that looked suspiciously like it had been sitting there for a while. His eyes, bright with anticipation, scanned the street before landing on me. “Ready to conquer the dance floor?” he grinned, his voice a sharp contrast to the cafe’s subdued atmosphere.

Nim is a creature of grace, his body a silent conversation with the universe. Tai Chi had molded him into a statue of stillness, a Zen master in motion. Now, he was about to trade his inner peace for the chaotic rhythm of the Cha Cha Cha. It was like asking a monk to become a rock star.

I managed a weak smile. The prospect of sharing a dance floor with this man, who seemed to possess a natural rhythm that defied gravity, was about as appealing as a root canal. But there was a certain charm to his unbridled optimism that was hard to resist. And so, I nodded, resigned to my fate.







So, there I was, nursing a cold coffee in a dead-end cafe, waiting for Carlos to embark on the next chapter of his life. The guy was on a roll, chasing dreams pilgrim.

His backpack, a motley collection of essentials and oddities, was slung over his chair. Dangling from it was a bright yellow Pikachu keychain, a stark contrast to the overall seriousness of the situation.

It was a small detail, but it summed up Carlos perfectly. I could almost see him now, that stupid Pikachu keychain bobbing up and down as he navigated the airport, a beacon of optimism in a world of tired travelers.

The thought of him soaring through the sky, probably with a stupid grin on his face, filled me with a strange mix of envy and admiration.

I took another sip of coffee, letting the bitterness wash over me. It was a small taste of reality in a world full of Carlos’s dreams.








The machine spat out a can of tonic water with a triumphant hiss, as if mocking my poor aim. I glared at the stubborn metal beast, my hand hovering over the selection buttons. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her: a girl, maybe a year or two younger, her face flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. She was tapping furiously at her phone, the vending machine her indifferent adversary.

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to laugh, a cruel, self-preserving instinct. The other part, a tiny flicker of something unfamiliar, nudged me forward. Before I could think twice, I was there, hovering over her shoulder.

“You need to press the buttons on the machine, not your phone,” I said, my voice coming out drier than expected.

She looked up, startled, her eyes wide with a mix of gratitude and something else I couldn’t quite place. I pointed at the buttons, my finger hovering awkwardly. She nodded, her cheeks coloring deeper.

With a clumsy efficiency, I guided her through the process, selecting her ice cream, inserting the money. When the machine finally dispensed the sweet reward, she smiled, a shy, grateful smile.

As she turned to leave, I felt a pang of regret. My rescue had been more of a condescending lecture than a friendly assist. I should have offered to buy her the ice cream. Instead, I’d been a know-it-all, a stranger imposing his help on someone clearly struggling to navigate a simple task.

I watched her walk away, a small figure disappearing into the crowd.