It’s a strange day at the coffee shop. Saturdays are always busy in a walking community but today is a mean day, a liar, promising summer’s warmth through its brilliant blue sky but delivering a chill breeze that has many people shivering. 

A husband scolded his sundress-wearing wife for not bringing a jacket. She laughed, soothing a baby in a stroller, and told him that she’d forgotten it. (Yeah, man, she’s already got a lot going on; don’t be mean.) A young man took his sweatshirt off and gave it to a girl, helping her adjust the collar so she looked just SO in it. Then, he walked with her, a little smile on his face. It was surprisingly sweet on this mean day.

A woman approached an older, graying man and asked him if he was who she thought. He bowed. It was rather charming. He was, in fact, who she thought. I didn’t recognize him but I probably wouldn’t recognize Chris Hemsworth if he sat down across from me. This gentleman was not, by the way, tall enough to be a Hemsworth, in case you think I’m hinting something. He seems Pittsburgh-famous, which would still be meaningless to me. I once attended a dinner party with a famous retired Steeler (it was Franco Harris) and had no idea. 

An absolutely beautiful, tall (6’4″ maybe) Asian man walked by a bit ago wearing a full-length black trench coat. He returned a little later and hovered outside the coffee shop, looking like a member of a boy band. It made me laugh. I just finished reading an ARC about a pop star who goes incognito, as if that’s actually a thing. It seemed like our mysterious trench coat man was waiting for someone because he stood, phone in hand, watching the pedestrian traffic. I have no idea what happened to him because I was working and stopped watching him. Perhaps his security team showed up and whisked him away. 

The leaves are swirling on the sidewalk, occasionally taking flight or falling from the trees that line this street. I will have to shake the small yellow leaves from my jacket when I eventually stand. They linger, sticking to the soft, dark blue cotton, a rather lovely contrast, a temporary fall brooch.

There’s a melancholy isolation to sitting here. Occasionally, I see someone I know. We nod, say a few words of greeting before I return to my computer and they go about their journey. I am, though, also invisible. Groups of people meet like the tide rolling in to meet the sandy beach and break apart again just like the tide drawing back. There’s a rhythm to all things, isn’t there? I suspect that the ocean does not see the individual fish, either. 

If we are each, truly, invisible, what is the lesson? To be less invisible? I don’t think so. I think the lesson may be that we need not worry over — or more importantly be changed by — the thoughts and opinions of others. If, after all, we are invisible, then our actions matter to no one but our individual selves. Perhaps, on the next mean day, I’ll give that a try.

Much love.