Sometimes the rhythm of the world coincides with music. It’s almost magic when it does- the beat of pipes beating steam to heat a room magically matches the beat of a Bob Dylan song and you can’t help but smile.
The reason for this occurrence is random; or maybe even sub-conscious. Perhaps there was a lower beat that you faintly heard that made you pick a particular song and press play at that very moment. But perhaps there’s more. Perhaps that particular song playing nudged a rusted clot along.
Melinda adjusted her coat to better cover her legs and looked straight ahead. It was freezing outside and she was trying to conserve as much heat as she rode on the bus before she would have to walk outside again. Her forthcoming walk was short- just two blocks to the restaurant where Mark was waiting. Perhaps it may seem presumptuous to say that Mark would be waiting, but he was always early. And Melinda was running 20 minutes late.
She pulled the heavy wooden door and glanced inside. Mark was sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette and reading a book. She sat down opposite him. He finished a paragraph and looked up.
“Hi. Good to see you.” He put out his cigarette.
“Ordered anything?” She made an awkward motion to remove her coat while seated.
“Not yet. Coffee.” He passed a menu towards her. “Hungry?”
“Starving. I mean not really. I’ll have tea.”
“Great; there’s some on its way.”