The Relief of Silence

Sippin on a Guinness at Shannachie's Pub in Willitz, Northern California.  The table next to me is occupied by a black cat with white socks and grey whiskers.  He's 18 and older than the pub.  Apparently the place is his and nobody is in the mood to challenge him.  I keep my distance.  He looks innocent enough but a cat that owns a bar is not a feline to disagree with. 

I'm considering heading home, which for tonight is the house we've been painting on School Street.  It has new carpet and fresh paint and is thus way more inviting than the house I started today that reeks of dog piss and has smoke stained walls. 

But then there's the girl sitting at the bar with the accent that I can't yet place.  It's European and familiar but is just barely eluding definition.  Her friend is willowy in a white floor length skirt, sweater, and scarf with eyes that are inordinately large for her face.  And for the life of me, I just want to place that accent. 

The jazz music flowing through the speakers begs a cool demeanor.  Two locals throw dice on the floor as a patron sits next to the owner and sets his beer down beside the cat's curled form.  I dream of forgiveness. 

The scruffy bartender with a wool cheese cutter works through the days crossword as the aging men at the bar banter over the evening's brews and I consider sanding and refinishing the bar's aged hardwood floor and decide such an action would require penance. 

I slowly rise to my feet, glance around the bar one last time, bidding the room a silent good bye and walk out into the evening rain.  Heading back to the house, I take my time, allowing the cool rain to slowly soak through cotton.  I'm chilled as I step through the front door and find relief in silence.  I curl up inside my sleeping bag and allow the ringing in my ears to lull me gently to sleep, engulfed finally by the stark absence of thought.