thoughts upon a visit to the local coffee shop…
she wasn’t the kind of person you meet by mistake. you know the one, sitting in the corner, sipping coffee, nose in a book, rarely looking up but when she did, it was to set myopic eyes in overtly curious fashion on the world. she looked at people like she could dissect them, like her eyes were autoradiographic.
i met her on purpose. there weren’t any other chairs and i didn’t mind sitting by her. i think she was surprised. maybe a little scared. she fidgeted with her book, as if unable to decide if reading with ‘another person’ sitting at ‘her table’ was ok.
i got the impression she didn’t really interact with people that often. maybe it was a choice, but it seemed to me more like she was uncomfortable in her own skin. or perhaps only discomforted by the discomfort of others with her appearance. hard to say.
the conversation, if you could call it such, was mostly my clumsy attempts to engage and her monosyllabic replies. sometimes, only non-verbal sounds. not quite grunts. pushing sound past reluctant throat, lips and tongue unwilling to reveal and so, passively regurgitating it all.
eventually she got up, made her goodbyes, and left. i sipped my coffee and retrieved my own book from my bag… becoming her in her absence. no, that’s not quite correct. maybe that’s why i didn’t mind asking her if i could sit there. i knew her. she was me.
i forgot the world for a while, and traveled in the boat of the author’s words. no interruptions. the coffee was better than expected. but i remember there were three empty chairs in the otherwise full house.
most prefer takeout.