the meaning of life

There’s a sort of Leonard Cohen beat to the day. It’s slow and methodical, sweet and sincere, it shakes your spirit, and reminds it why it’s there.

I’m waiting for you at the airport. I arrived half an hour late, but not having checked the flight status, it turns out I’m an hour early. I buy a cup of coffee and sit at a table.

My mind is racing. Panting. It can’t quite catch its breath. I try to read the paper, but my eyes don’t want to read a line a time; they want to see you; completely; at once.

I look up and see a monk.

The other tables are taken.

“Did you want to sit down?”

He smiles, politely.

I point to the seat next to mine.

He halfway bows then sits down. He isn’t drinking anything, just staring straight ahead.

For some reason, I decide to mess with him.

“You know, you could probably have that robe taken in.”

No reaction.

I go back to my paper. Scan the headlines; there’s nothing to read. I fold it on the table.

“When football players thank G-d for their success, does he feel guilty about not granting the other team’s prayers?”

No reaction.

“Do you have a secret handshake?”

No reaction.

I’m finally convinced. I can feel the tears start to well. Here’s a real man of G-d, and instead of learning, I’ve been taunting.

“What’s the meaning?”

“42. Asshole.” He says, laughing, and walks away.