The Day When Nothing Happened

On a morning like any other morning, nothing exciting , nothing unusual, bound to happen the things would take their normal course. Just another day to pass like the day before and the day before and so on. A routine. A boring, never ending, self-made routine in which only the coffee seemed a bit different: more bitter, maybe stronger. Like a self-given kick in order to find the strength to fight the routine. It was those very early moments in the morning when nothing seemed to happened and yet after the cup was left alone on the table it would begin.

It would begin out of nowhere and end up almost in the same way. The table would become a stage where in the middle, the cup slowly released this transparent, smoky like figurine to be lifted up in the air. A streak of heat and aroma would anxiously wait while raising higher and higher, thinner and thinner.

On this morning, just like on the morning before, the balcony door got open and the light morning breeze sneaked through the thin, wavy curtain making room every now and then for the mellow sun rays. It would meet at some point the lazy steam sneaking from the coffee cup and in the silence of that lazy morning an invisible light dance would start between those two. Briefly ended by the predictable sips that went on and on until there was no dance left. The breeze would be left alone, no more dancing. Sneaking back out and waiting for the next day.

This was the usual morning show that managed to sneak in that routine each time the door had been left open. The soft air would sly in, flow up and down slowly, swirl and twirl until it found that lazy, tempting coffee steam. It would push and pull, twist and grip, hiding and waiting for each sip to finish to continue the dance would until the steam would just shy away.

It was such a bless to keep that door open, as if a whole invisible world got inside with that breeze and shook the boredom out of the day. Because if nothing special was to happen and every day would be just like the one before, that moment in the morning could have been the best performance. The morning routine got stopped in that moment, in that dance.

It seemed to be going on and on and on. And nothing seemed to be able to break that dance in silence. Except maybe, for a feather that got swooshed in and left at the door when the curtain moved. It looked as if it had fallen from somewhere up in the sky and the morning breeze decided to bring one more presence for today's dance. An extra dancer. The feather lied down, on the floor waiting. Every now and then when the intensity of the breeze increased the feather would slightly flutter. Just like a ballerina’s tutu. Flutter, flutter, and relax.

On the coffee table’s stage the dance kept moving: twisting, turning, moving up and disappearing somewhere into thin air. Twisting, turning, moving, and dying with every single sip. Flutter, flutter and relax, somewhere in the background.

The mellow, summer breeze had been left alone. Only the curtain kept slowly waving and every now and then the feather fluttered. Then all of a sudden the curtain went up, almost to the ceiling, like being taken on a huge wave, the feather got lifted up in the air, swept away and the door closed shut. The dance was over.

Time to move on with the day.