What is is about coffee houses that make them more relaxing than your own livingroom?
It's my day off - my only one all Spring Break. What I should be doing: taking my car in for a much needed visit to the service center. However, I chose to forgo this in favor of a few quality hours of loafing about in my underwear before heading to the local indie coffee shop to catch up on my reading (i.e. people watching).
I walk in and order my drink of choice (a huge ass latté) and continue with my current Vonnegut kick, cracking open "The Sirens of Titan." For a while it's just me and a couple of businessmen, who are in hushed conversation, huddling over what looks to be large stack of Very Important Documents. In walks subject #2: tall, a little rotund, intellectual, carrying a biography on John Quincy Adams. He places his things in a secluded corner booth, and walks up to give his order, after which we make eye contact and I go back to my book. He continues to stare. Openly. For a long time. DamnitIshouldn'thavewornthisshirt. My breasts are not that magnificent, sir, kindly return to your table. But he does not - instead he picks up his things and moves to the table closest mine, sitting so that he directly faces me. Oh, bugger, still staring. I put down my book and pick up a copy of the New York Times, opening it as widely as possible, successfully obscuring over half of my body. A couple walks in and I begin to eavesdrop.
She is tragically beautiful - dark, upswept hair, long neck, big doe eyes red from crying, slightly defeated posture. He seems to be in a daze, not looking at her, instead spending quite a lot of time gazing out the window. They don't look at eachother when they speak. Now I realize that I'm the one staring. I can't hear much, but I catch certain phrases like "I don't understand how you could do this to me," "she didn't mean anything, I promise," and "do you really think that I can trust you after this? Do you even still love me?" interspersed with a lot of "fuck"s. Uh oh. This sounds all to familiar. All of a sudden I can't listen anymore.
Putting down the paper I see that the Starer has gone and so I pick up my book. Next person who walks in is a brief aquaintence - we've met twice before, both at parties, both under the influence of staggering amounts of alcohol. Do I say hello? How about, "what's up?! I think you tried to grope me a few days ago!" Perhaps not. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't really feel like talking, so I don't look up. He takes the table formerly occupied by the Starer, sitting with a copy of the paper, facing me; I don't think either of us is actually reading. It's sort of awkward, really. I feel like a big jerk for not saying anything, but he hasn't piped up, either, so I suppose that makes up even. It's about this time that I ask the barrista for a few pieces of paper and start writing.
A few more people trickle in - mostly middle-aged men with a paper or book, occasionally a laptop. I'm surprised to not see more people my age, but it is Spring break in a college town.
The Aquaintence starts writing all over his copy of The Times, and it isn't the crossword. There's something strangely artistic about someone frantically scribbling away all over a newspaper. Part of me wonders if he's writing about me, too.
The clouds are getting heavy, and it's looking like it might rain. I'd better get going - I walked here and the prospect of running home wearing sandals, shorts and a lacey tank top is not one I look forward to. And Cheryl Crow's "Soak Up the Sun" just came on the satellite radion. That's my cue to leave.
