André by Elizabeth Yushchenko

Tapping… tapping… tapping…
One finger after another: pinky, ring, middle, index.. Tap, tap, tap…They’re all drumming that melody of impatience, of thoughts fastly rushing through one’s mind. You can almost feel them changing, transforming, going here and there, like a flock of frolic fishes. Faster and faster fingers are touching the surface of an old table, that lost nearly all of its shining lacquered coating. Now there are only scratches, cuts, dents, coffee stains and other marks old and not so old. This table is not in its best condition, not even in a slightly decent one, you would probably throw it away already or use as an outdoor stand for flower pots and baskets with apples and plums from your garden, where the warm autumn rains would destroy it eventually. But here it is, standing near the window, with no tablecloth on it, old and quite unpretty, but with dozen of life moments carved onto it for a lifetime.
And here you are sitting, with your long fingers, dancing unrestingly, and your bright blue eyes, glancing at everything and at nothing at the same time. Oh, I know that dance,  and I know that glance too. Your body looks still and unmoving, concentrated on something, as if you’re a David, carved by Michelangelo. But you’re not, cause I know, inside you’re the Bernini's Apollo, who is chasing Daphne, I can tell it for sure. The notebook in front of you tells me that. With its brown leather cover, that looks quite antique, it lays on the scratched table, still untouched, waiting for the right moment.
Some people are passionate to write down their thoughts immediately, they rush, trying to capture every word, every change that follows; they write and rewrite, they cross out and paste, they underline and put question marks every time they are too slow to catch the flow of their thoughts. Pages of their notebooks look like battlefields from big paintings.
You’re obviously not of that kind, your pen is lying on the opened page, but you are not touching it, not even looking at it. You’re far away, not here. Sitting in this small café, on this small street, surrounded by other people, you are flying somewhere distant now. It’s all in your head: all thoughts, all words. And you are trying to hear them,  to find, to capture. And you will, cause although you reminded me of Apollo, you won`t share his fate, your Daphne loves you and is waiting for you somewhere on the fields of golds in your head. And when you finally find her, and she will smile at you, you’ll shake your head, run your fingers through your hair, touch the pen and you will start to write.