Just to sit and sip

Today I went to a coffee shop with my laptop to write.

There was just over a dozen customers in the cafe, some writing, studying, reading. Conversing. The usual, well-traversed cafe visitors.

One person stood out as I looked up in between paragraphs.

A man, likely in his 50s (though tough to ascertain on appearance alone). He wore a maroon t-shirt and cargo khaki pants. He sat alone at a table, had already been occupying it when I arrived, still there two hours later. He’d ordered and sipped at two different beverages in the time since I’d arrived.

He had not a book in hand, or a pen, or a phone or notebook. Nothing to read or write. No one sitting across to talk to.

Just stared straight ahead; occasionally sat with eyes closed, perhaps listening or meditating. I did not hear him speak to order his second drink.

There’s simple assumptions that I made: that he can hear, that he speaks English, that he prefers to be alone. That he likes people, that he likes coffee, that he is wealthy and spends all his days here. But these are all broad and based on personal experience and expectations, not on any gathered evidence or conversation.

Out of all of the customers in the cafe, this man stands out to me. Does that say more about me than him? That I found his sitting alone, without a book or a pen, to be interesting? How is that abnormal? Why do I think that is abnormal and not just, y’know, natural?

There are also judgments based on assumptions: that he is lonely, that he likes to be alone. But he’s also around people.

Perhaps he does live alone, but prefers to surround himself with people just to feel a part of things.

Or maybe he just likes the drinks and it doesn’t matter that he’s alone, not reading, not studying, not writing or doing a crossword puzzle.

Perhaps, to feel complete, he just likes to sit among people and feel the air tremor from the populace; for a short time every day recognizing that the society around him, the community, is family.

There’s a thousand reasons he could be sitting alone in a public cafe, and none of them really matter. This is just an observation of a person I found interesting as I was at the cafe today.

Perhaps he looked at me the same way: why does this guy sit with a computer, sipping coffee, instead of just sitting and watching, listening, learning. Why does this guy write out his thoughts instead of thinking about them?

Why does Joe not just sit and sip?

Times Like These

We sipped a little this morning. She with her tap water, me with my coffee.

She tells me to ease up on my caffeine intake. Constantly. Says I’m going to become dehydrated. That my health will fail, and that could be dangerous in “times like these.” Like nothing else is dangerous. Like we have a lot of time remaining anyway.

That’s the phrase she always uses: “Times like these.” As though these “times” aren’t real that this is only a facsimile of something more realistic that is happening, or did happen somewhere else. To someone else.

EIGHTY-NINE

The sun set. To Bill it was like watching a cup of coffee being dumped out in a sink. The warmth of the day evaporated fast, and the feeling that anything was possible suddenly died.

With the darkness came a sense of fear, an anxiety that flooded Bill such that he could hardly breathe. He didn’t sleep a wink, and by morning he was hopeless.

Then the sun rose again, and he steamed coffee and took the first sip of the first day of the rest of his life.