Coffee shop stream of consciousness

There are enough cars on the roads in this part of town that it’s not worth trying to drive out until after seven.

I’m at a local coffee shop. The furniture is bad. I imagine it deters lingering. The music is catchy. That’s a problem for me. I end up listening through to the next song each time, neglecting my sentences.

There is a woman sitting outside, right in front of my window seat. I’ve been watching her sketch out a very realistic outline of Texas, replete with the curves and contours of the Rio Grande and Gulf Coast. She shows her boyfriend every few minutes, who leans over, his earbuds tugging at his shirt. It’s very good work, but I wonder if she might have saved time buying a version online. Maybe I’m missing the point. Yes, I am probably missing the point.

She sketches the word “home” inside and starts to shade the state. Nice. I can see that on a t-shirt.

It’s late enough that some high schoolers are delaying their home arrivals after debate team practice. I’ve been hearing every second of prattle. They hate Mexicans. They feel so much smarter than the exchange students because they speak English. They seem to love simile—everything is “like” something. They don’t remember who sings this song (it’s the Yeah Yeah Yeahs). There are apparently better people to follow on Instagram than one of their classmates. They are laughing at a poem someone posted on Facebook. It’s silly.

The sun is low enough only the treetops and clouds remain ablaze. Elsewhere there is the growing gloom. On my arrival in afternoon it was shade, now shadow, soon twilight.

The high schoolers leave.

Two women to my left are talking about their moms. They’re at first pretty—braided hair, clear skin, skirts that end a tad below their belly buttons. They say “fuck” a lot.

One by one, the shop begins to exhale its patrons. One by one, they go to their cars. Seven seems to be the time to rejoin the roads. There’s clanging and banging. Baristas are cleaning. Maybe it’s my signal to scram.

Not yet, friends. Discovery just came over the speakers. You sure know how to pick ‘em.


About salemonz

Born in San Diego, Calif. Raised as a Navy Brat, I jumped ship and crossed over to the Army. Served as an enlisted journalist for a bunch of years, then helped the DoD figure out what the hell to do with social media. After the Army, now I drift down the river of life, trying not to be a jerk.

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