What time was it yesterday?
We sat facing a small table.
We was quite close to the people in the cafe.
He followed me speaking down
and I appreciated his consideration.
"You don't have to speak quietly.
This is a cafe, not a library."
But he kept whispering to me.
(Ah! Because of this.)
His eyes were only coming into my eyes.
We was looking at each other
in between the tables.
His deep eyes were clear and honest.
He often smiled,
but he had never built
the wall forward me.
He didn't modify my words,
he didn't copy mine.
It's usually like this going on.
My guests arrive on time or a little late.
They evaluate my English.
'Mine is Good' or
keep asking me to say it again.
People who have lived only
in English or had the privilege of speaking English are
unfamiliar with the environment
in which they speak only
their languages
other than English.
Even though
they are not the center of the world.
He was courteous all the time
and as if I were an interviewer,
he was calm and pleasant.
Have done I miss someone's smile?
I thought I was already having
enough fun with nice people,
I thought I had been receiving
the eyes and smiles of the guests
who came to meet me as gifts
and holding hands more.
There was a warm feeling in his eyes,
and there was no criticism in his expression.
His pigtails, braided and tied back,
seemed to just have left the Indian quarter.
I couldn't hold back my curiosity,
so I asked.
"You look like a mixed race."
He answered He's Mexican.
In my head, However,
in a scene from a drama,
I have portrayed a character
who lives in an Indian community,
but studies downtown, drinks at a bar,
always feels the gap
between tradition and reality.
Unlike ordinary guests who speak
sharply and accurately,
he spoke softly, showed some shyness.
He seemed to be an emotional,
a man who had recovered from
a serious illness or
was preparing for a new plan.
It was like after a time of his deep thought.
As far as I'm concerned,
it just feels like that I felt.
But he looked solid.
I pondered why I kept thinking of him
and trying to remember his details.
'What can l do?'
'What can I dream of?'
I thought I was a person with no limits,
nothing afraid of change.
I thought there was nothing to be worse,
nothing to fear.
But I realize I have too much.
My place and my role to protect,
what I had to do right now
were waiting one after another.
No matter how chemical he was,
there was no more I could do.
Another important fact was
that this was purely my own feelings.
Eyes like honey
