I’m in the Starbucks, avoiding writing what I should be writing because it results in a transference of funds from a corporate bank account into mine. That’s why I should be writing it, I mean, not why I’m avoiding it. If there’s one thing I love, it’s taking corporate money. Boy I love the sound of those nickels falling into my cup.
Nevertheless, I’m avoiding it so hard I’ve been driven to blog for the first time in over a month. Also, a thick fog has settled over my city and fog makes me feel bloggy. Anything could happen on a dark and foggy night, and as long as you don’t actually start the story that way, you are bound to discover something sinister crawling about your subconscious when you can’t see more than a meter in front of your face.
One table over, a job interview is going on. The woman is asking the young man questions about his background and he is earnestly answering them. He should’ve taken his knit cap off before she arrived, however. A knit cap on a young man at a job interview says “I don’t have enough sense to take my knit cap off before my interviewer arrives, and now I look like a dope.”
At another table, two middle-aged black men are speaking a language that is not English to each other. I can’t identify the language. Ethiopian? Over in the comfy chairs sit a white woman in her fifties and an Asian man about the same age. They are chatting but I don’t think they came in together. A heavy white woman in a stretchy polyester shirt is working on a computer, and a skinny white guy is engaged with what looks like a textbook. And then there’s me.
That’s the cast of characters.
A wall of cold air and tendrils of fog rushed in through the door when the tall, white-haired woman walked in. Without even a stop at the counter for a macchiato, she sat down at my table and shrugged off her wool coat (toggle buttons—very classy).
“You know why I’m here, right?” She tapped on the table with one perfectly oval fingernail.
“Has anyone left while you’ve been sitting here?”
“Uh, the guy getting interviewed is gone. And the interviewer,” I scanned the place but didn’t mention that the comfy chair couple had also departed.
“That’s the one.” The guy with the textbook kept darting glances our way. The stretchy-shirt woman stared out the window. Or was she looking at our reflections in the glass? The maybe-Ethiopian guys ignored us. The music stopped.
I closed my laptop and stuffed it into my pack. Standing up, I followed the white-haired woman out into the fog.