I am absolutely terrible at getting any work done at home. So I leave.
I stop at the Cafe, order a pot of tea and cake and sit down by the window. A little boy in wellies and a raincoat lingers on the other side of the glass, smiling at me. I wave.
The cafe is across from a sporting goods store, separated by The Corridor. An attendant comes out, followed by a customer, a middle-aged gentleman with thinning gray hair. The man is wearing new trainers and jogs up and down the length of the corridor to try them out. Now that's good service.
There is a guy sitting next to me reading Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. What a coincidence. I'm reading a book. Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide.
I turn away to press a tissue to my nose, ladylike, and the guy sniffles and does the same. More coincidence. He orders a cup of coffee and a tart, slowly extracts his phone to take a picture. Adds a filter. Instagram. I think we're meant to be.
Some Italians arrive with their lilting accents, obvious regulars who order espresso.
The baristas, in the quiet hours, build a tower out of cardboard cups.
At one point in time, I glance up--through the window I see a beanie, a pair of skinny jeans, face obscured behind a camera. He's taken my picture. Pretty sure I'm famous now.
I read. Haruki Murakami guy next to me reads. He feels our connection.
He closes his book, love's blossom breaking in his heart.
He packs up, leaves.
Our bond was too deep for words.
I stop at the Cafe, order a pot of tea and cake and sit down by the window. A little boy in wellies and a raincoat lingers on the other side of the glass, smiling at me. I wave.
The cafe is across from a sporting goods store, separated by The Corridor. An attendant comes out, followed by a customer, a middle-aged gentleman with thinning gray hair. The man is wearing new trainers and jogs up and down the length of the corridor to try them out. Now that's good service.
There is a guy sitting next to me reading Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. What a coincidence. I'm reading a book. Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide.
I turn away to press a tissue to my nose, ladylike, and the guy sniffles and does the same. More coincidence. He orders a cup of coffee and a tart, slowly extracts his phone to take a picture. Adds a filter. Instagram. I think we're meant to be.
Some Italians arrive with their lilting accents, obvious regulars who order espresso.
The baristas, in the quiet hours, build a tower out of cardboard cups.
At one point in time, I glance up--through the window I see a beanie, a pair of skinny jeans, face obscured behind a camera. He's taken my picture. Pretty sure I'm famous now.
I read. Haruki Murakami guy next to me reads. He feels our connection.
He closes his book, love's blossom breaking in his heart.
He packs up, leaves.
Our bond was too deep for words.
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