A Day at the Cafe

It's 5:00 PM and I find myself packing my things once again. Calculator, check. Lap-top, check. Number two pencil thats been vigorously gnawed by a pair of angry teeth, check!
I take a sweeping glace over desk to see if there is something I have missed. For once you leave, there is no turning back. My work will not take place at home, where eventually, I will fall victim to one of the gazillion enticing objects that lie all around my room. My guitar, for one thing, is not conducive to my studies. Before you know it, I will be strumming away, leaving my essays and math problems for later.

So, I mercilessly close the door of my room and set out. Where am I leaving for you ask? Café Pascucci. Second floor. Red round table by the window. I position myself on the chair, let the books and papers fall in their place. I begin my work.

Now, I have grown accostumed to working with chatter and music playing around me. It really depends on the person; if you let yourself be distracted by the group of highschool kids chatting away on the couch, or the seductive woman in the skimpy blouse smoking away on the balcony, or Sinatra's snazzy trumpet solos flowing out from the speakers all around, you might as well stay home. But these things do not bother me. Once I am here, I am able to concentrate on what I am doing; frequent sips of my vanilla latte will be the only thing that distracts me from my task.

6:14PM. I shift my eyes away from the computer screen and let them readjust to reality. I take time to observe the things that are going around me. There are many interesting things that your eyes may indulge on in a place like this.

Just then, a dashing young man walks in. He is followed by a woman, who, judging by the lines on her face, is not happy. They don't bother to order, and take a seat in the far corner of the room. The woman sits with her arms crossed, back against the chair. She looks down at her feet. Her lips are smugly sealed. They refuse to open.

The man, on the other hand, sits on the edge of his seat, his whole body leaning over the table. His arms are outstretched. His eyes, moist, are begging for the womans' to meet them. But the woman, sitting across from him, effortlessly deflects them. The man opens his mouth and begins to talk. The woman takes no interest. His hands clench to form fists, and they strike the table. Wham! He demands her to listen, the veins on his forehead pulsing with frustration.

But the woman does not comply. The man's arms now lie limp on the table. He slumps back in his seat. He lets his eyes wander. Nat King Cole's 'Autumn Leaves' plays on the background.

As amusing as this situation may seem, I look away. I glance back at my computer screen.
I take another sip from my vanilla latte.
I press 'publish post.'