Sitting in a coffee house after midnight.
A business man is laughing to himself and his laptop, with speakers turned just below that point of annoying, but past the point of caring that we can all hear what he’s listening to.
A middle-aged man is sleeping on his chest, a cursory coffee cooling on the table in front. He is wearing madras.
A couple of actors sit beside me discussing their career prospects, comparing notes.
An older couple stands in the rain sharing a post-coffee cigarette.
A starving student type is camping in the corner. He keeps looking over his shoulder, surveying the rest of us, like he’s hoping to meet someone special tonight, and will draw attention with his lingering gaze.
The barista leans heavily over the counter, lazily clicking out a text message.
Meanwhile Bob Marley wails over us, as young women clickity clack down the street.
Now a man with a loud voice walks in, but promises he won’t talk in here, because his voice carries. But he can’t help it, and she won’t mind. No, she won’t mind…
True to his word, once she pours the coffee, and his change has jingled in the "thanks a latte for the tipuccino" bowl, he doesn't say a word.
No comments:
Post a Comment