Coffee: Americano, Starbucks; Like many 21st century first-world citizens, I’ve been drinking these for years. The espresso tastes like your grandmother’s ashtray. She quit smoking twenty years ago but the dust’s still there. It’s not all bad: familiarity, old movies, Saturday mornings, knowing you’ve got a thousand better places to be than stuck in your home.
I drove a friend to their car this morning. Last night’s bar was too tempting, smoky liquor. It was a nice drive. We got there on the highway and I took a different route back. I saw a war memorial. It was marble. It was pointy. I don’t know what it made me feel, if I even felt anything. Both of my grandfathers fought in the Second World War. Bloodshed’s been out of my family for two generations.
That same friend talked to me about head cheese last night and I told them I was squeamish. I ate chicken for lunch. A complicated affair with violence.
Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
“Listen up – there’s no war that will end all wars.” – Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore