A symphony

Let me record, before I forget or it becomes irrelevant, that all these things were happening at once: the street was outside the window looking in, Maria was frowning at the coffee machine, the pastries were basking in the evening light, the football match was in progress, a laugh was on deck in my throat ready to replace the smile on my face, the pink bougainvillea crept up the mustard wall and, shaking your leg, you spooned milk foam up off your coffee and back in, and up and back in, and up and into your mouth like a cat that got the cream. All these things were happening at once, all at once, and not, as they must in my memory, sequentially. I think perhaps they call this a symphony.