Contemplating Seattle

I had crab cakes, with eggs Benedict, for breakfast in Seattle last weekend. They were browned, crunchy, breaded crab cakes with a wonderful texture like mashed potatoes inside; topped with poached eggs with those warm liquid yolks. And a pretty good, sort of nutty creamy, coffee in one of those oversize round china mugs. You know the type. You're tempted to wrap your hands around them for the comforting warmth rather than try to hold them by the handle. And in fact they are so large and bulky that you find using the handle to be uncomfortable. But the mug has got this edge that does not quite fit your lips. So you end up dribbling coffee down the mug where it dries and leaves these little tracks accusing you of being a bit sloppy, so that when you look at the mug later after it dries, you think, "I would not drink from that cold dirty mug". Or, worse yet, the coffee dribbles down your chin, the wet trickle heading for shirt or lap, and you are only a deft swipe with a napkin away from being apparently unable to even feed yourself. And you are embarrassed that as an adult you still can't drink from an awkward yet strangely comforting and at the same time, frustrating mug. This reminds me in many ways of my past marriage... Except that the waitress will always refill the mug with warmth if I ask, and with the right timing, I can enjoy the coffee and leave before the mug goes cold in my hands. Breakfast was free, the chef covered my bill, they, (the eggs) were late, because of some kind of mis-communication with the waitress. I left her a $10 tip. Feeling guilty, my favorite pastime, I left to walk over the Fremont Ave Bridge...
You know, where that life size bus stop sculpture is. The bridge superstructure is just a big curved gear rack; there is a fixed pinion gear arrangement on each side of the structure, and on both shores. The bridge halves pivot at the shoreline to lift their cantilevered ends above the channel and let the taller masted ships go by. Arguably, an anachronism, as the Highway Bridge towers overhead just a few hundred feet away. But this old bridge is as alive as its modern replacement is dead. People drive across it’s back feeling for the shudder and listening to the whine as their tires bite into the metal deck. As they pass they see the familiar metal vertebra coated thickly with chipped green paint. Below them the bridge decking has grown shiny with the polishing of their passing tires. As comforting as a parent who does not age. And they listen for the bridge to sing to them, and are reassured by the familiar song and the gentle rocking. I have chosen to come this way, they think.
I ordered a fresh pot of tea at the coffee shop down the street from the bridge. Sat upstairs by the window and watched the traffic go by below as it queued up for the bridge. From the angle I was at, I could not see any faces, just the drivers and passengers from the shoulders down. I found myself trying to interpret complex relationships from momentary out of context views of body language. Ha, another good description of my marriage.
I realized, sitting there, that I was slowly losing substance. In the years since the end of my marriage I had become as invisible to other people as I had been to my then wife. Or maybe I always was, but had just now come to understand it. In airports I was something that handed over a boarding pass and filled a seat, handed over cash and bought a sandwich, occupied a parking spot, was ahead or behind one of the visible people in line. It suddenly occurred to me that my absence was more apparent, in many instances, than my presence. I'd imploded my existence. I'm now a crater in the ether. Walk too close to me and experience deja vu.