Still Life with Cake

This is New York but it could be anywhere. A Hungarian café just around the corner from Columbia University. Dimly lit and close, it has the small dark warmth of a cave. A sharp scent of coffee slices the air as I walk in. I am here to meet a friend but he is running late so I order some blueberry cinnamon cake and go and sit at the back, among the dry murmurs of the lamps. The place is crowded with shoulders as students stoop over books, studying for their finals. It's the week before Christmas and exams loom overhead. A soft swirl of voices travels through the room. The accents are lost on me but I catch the familiar sounds of stress, those innocent noises of fervent despair, that grow in these hours as time runs out and words thicken on the page. I eat my cake and look at my watch. At a nearby table, a couple eat a sandwich with a knife and fork. This could be anywhere but it is New York.