Five years ago, almost to the day. A Tuesday. I was at the "La Scuar" coffee shop, the one with the creaky floorboards and the old man who always reads the same newspaper twice. I had finished my espresso, paid with the last coins in my pocket, and stood by the door like a fool, watching the downpour thrash the pavement.
Maybe that’s what we do. We take things — not out of greed, but out of loneliness. We borrow meaning from objects, from people, from places. We hold on. And when we finally learn the truth, it’s too late to give it back without explanation. blogul anastase
“That was mine, băiete. I left it there on purpose, so I’d have an excuse to run out into the rain. I like getting wet. Reminds me I’m alive.” Five years ago, almost to the day
I laughed. Then I almost cried.
I told myself: “Anastase, someone forgot it. If you leave it here, the old man will throw it away by closing time. You’re not stealing. You’re... rescuing.” I had finished my espresso, paid with the
For five years, that umbrella lived with me. I took it to the market, to the metro, to that failed job interview in Drumul Taberei. I never fixed the spoke. I told myself I would. But maybe I liked the idea of a flawed protector. Someone — something — that tried its best even when it leaked.
So now the umbrella sits by my door again. I don’t know if I should return it. He clearly doesn’t want it. But it was never mine. And yet, in some strange way, it is.