Cave in Delphi -Stephen Reid

The cafe, with pews and Wornleather Queen Anne’s for seating, was a repository, or
more accurately a shore, where the oxidised and sanded furniture of one time well-to do
middle class homes washed up. Table lamps with tassels, window-bleached satin spun
across the ribs of their shades, bluing copper and quartz sconce attached to the nipple of
an eco-friendly 20watt bulb. For example. The roof was filigreed in tiles of cornice-
moulded plastic, a shimmering of copperesque lambency in the lamplight. Beyond the
triple bang of the coffee filter, cutlery’s clink, and hushed vowels of Lake County
mumblings, the only consistent sound was the bass. They’d dialled out the treble of the
speakers, so that all we got was the bass. The once subliminal octave became the new
constant, in contretemps and dulcet wombwombwomb, in the uncanny undercarriage of
familiar ear worms, so that the melody echoed from within the ear to accompany the
presence of its core, its enervating pulse. That was the sound, of the cafe. There were
probably people present too, customers, not just clear skinned Polish waitresses with
perfect posture and sensible shoes and a child from a teenage pregnancy now old
enough to allow the undertaking of an evening degree in Business and Economics. Yes,
there were also customers, of varying ages (I imagine) I, of course being one of them.
One of the ages making up the scatter graph from teething pains to arthritic skull bones.

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