I wish I was as happy as the man perched on the stool by the counter. When I say perched I mean perched like a bird, his feet tucked under him like he is about to hop off and take flight. Sure, he may be annoying the barista-boy a bit and freaking out the occasional patron – but not really, because…well, the neighbourhood. He’s got a tiny little keyboard and it may or may not actually be helping him to compose something. His mystery tunes are hidden within his giant headphones and he is moving and swaying along in the style of Stevie Wonder meets Chris Martin at a rave. He’s annoying in my peripheral vision, but damn does he look happy.
Directly behind him sit the three most miserable people at the communal table. I am one of them. I suppose the pinkish ginger wearing a shirt of a similar colour as his skin is having some sort of existential crisis. Or perhaps he isn’t such a wank and is just sad that his girlfriend dumped him or won’t call him back. Maybe boyfriend. Who cares.
He has a phone in his hand which he is looking at and he has a iced Americano and a small glass of water. His book has not been opened the entire time he has sat here, he looks down and his giant frame glasses do nothing to conceal his sadness or malaise.
The young east-Asian guy with remarkably waxed hair is staring at his laptop like I was at mine a moment ago after a good 30 minutes of not writing a damn thing. We looked over at me in a sympathic way as if to say “I also wanted to be brilliant but can’t seem to write worth a damn today. FML.” I sort of nodded.
A man who looks like a blond and dorkier Tom Hanks – yes, dorkier, just sat down.
I’ve worn daisy dukes and wedges and tank tops before, I am sure, but please oh please tell me I never looked as …well you know…(trashy) as that woman over there. She’s Marissa from the OC but if she stayed in chino with that crackhead FOREVER. Her muscle boyfriend is cute, but his biceps freak me out and I think he’s the sort of person that would get uglier if he spoke.
Mad conductor. Add mad conductor to the description of the way the strange music guy moves.
The sun is warm on my back and that, for a moment, made me want to be all Victorian in my writing style. But fuck that, there are now five laptops at the table, four grumpy faces and the most depressing indie tunes I have ever heard. Now I have myself wondering if one of the Brontes would have been a depressed hipster – I feel that Charlotte might have. And I think that Emily might have written today’s version of Girls meets some Sarah Polly film. Now I am sad.
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