PrephaCe

So this was just some other morning in my life’s track, sitting ere, all by myself at the café. Ten in the morning, barely visible sun, yet the sunlight was blinding and bright enough to honor my sunglasses. The remains of my cigarette, recently smoked laid all burnt and surrounded by ashes and some water in the ashtray. I am actually deeply disturbed by the smoke cigarettes throw when finished, so I always drown them, the filter tube immediately absorbing and turning a light shade of maroon. Disgusting habit, smoking is, I keep telling myself. Each morning, sitting by myself at the café, I promise myself to quit; yet here I go again… smoking…
Even though it was indeed a pretty normal morning for me, there was -surprisingly- a difference to it. A big, fat, old difference. The shades around my eyes were this morning, if possible, even darker and deeper than yesterday’s, my eyes were swollen and it seem to me now that I am recalling it that I failed wonderfully while trying to conceal it by means of make-up. So, being what you may call a thinking person and a closet poet, I started dramatizing my life up and thinking about what had got me here at this state. I must have looked as if I was drifting away as I started thinking, I guess.
New York is for dreamers, or so they say; well, it certainly was for my parents who came here 20 years ago in their quest for money, luxurious and style. The first items on their list they got them, but style… style you can not buy. So they just delegated that for their next generation: you guessed, moi! My heritage consisted mainly on a nice surname, gorgeous features and tons of cash. Thankfully.
<>. Just like the hotel… that’s something that will always haunt me, though living anytime I want in a hotel is a plus, I give them that much. “Well, hey there, my name is D. Broussard” . Not exactly the best ice-breaker ever, right? Luckily the had even taken care of that, of growing me the New Yorker style: expensive school (rich parents = rich classmates), fancy neighborhood; nanny, or no parental supervision whatsoever, you name it… everything was taken care of.
All of a sudden, coming back abruptly from my mental drift, I became very self conscious about how I must be looking there, all by myself, a venti cappuccino in hand, my mobile on the other; a packet of expensive cigarettes lying there, between a book (“ The Mayfair Witches”) and a Mont Blanc Skywalker pen; an overlarge Burberry trench coat gently covering but not concealing my lean figure, the tube gray oxford jeans and the orange and purple stripped flats shimmering against the utter blackness of my outfit; the Gucci sunglasses on and the auburn hair glowing in the misty sunlight. Everything just pointed out to the same old thought: “just another spoiled junior”. Everybody saw that, but to me the only thing on me jumping to sight was the silver ring sparkling on my manicured finger, glistening and reflecting the word Chopard. However that was not what I was conscious about, it was the engraving on the inner part , pressing to the skin on my finger…
Well, it had not been forever, and here I was, all by myself again…