The diner is my first stop. Breakfast there is one of the few meals I can eat without feeling sick afterwards but we’re not talking about malabsorption today. Waving hello to the cooks, I stop at my favorite seat. One of the servers, new, offers me a menu and I decline. They’re already making my order. I get the same one every time–two eggs over medium, bacon, crispy home fries, and an English muffin with grape jelly. I can eat about half, less sometimes. The cooks always give me way too much food; they love my son who used to work there.

I’m eating and reading when a table of 10 boisterous diners sits down next to me. An older man, white haired, a retired principal, talks to two middle school kids seated across from him. He’s trying to connect by telling one of them about someone who shares the child’s name. In case you are tempted to try this strategy, allow me the indulgence of discouraging you. The kids don’t care. Points for their upbringing, though. They were very polite.

On my way to the coffee shop, I pass a woman sitting in the shade. It’s early, the sun not yet above the house horizon, if you will. She suffers from the hunched back that women my age fight against, downing our daily calcium tablets with more excitement than we’ve felt since our first Backstreet Boys concert. I’d know her age from her fingers on the keyboard of her computer, no need to see the wrinkles and spots that match those on my own hands. It’s because her fingers hover just above the home row. She, absolutely, just like most women of a certain age, took a typing class in high school. 

A sound disturbs my navel contemplation. Not that I’m actually gazing at my belly button. I *am* staring off into space, though, not thinking so much as existing. I turn, puzzled, unable to determine the source of the sound. It’s not the whining child sitting at the table outside. She is very clearly saying, “I’m coooooolllllddddddd.” Her parents ignore the noise until none of us can. 

Still, the other sound continues, a repetitive clack, firmer than heels, and louder than you’d expect a shoe to sound on a tile floor. I keep looking. A very pretty older man sits at the table next to the whiny girl who would not be whining if her parents had listened in the first place. It’s not the attractive man. He’s just watching the world go by as he waits for a suited man to join him. I feel like he’s being sold something from the passion with which the other man waves his hands. 

Ah ha! I’ve found the source. A young man is breaking the law outside the coffee shop. Hehe He’s stapling documents to the wooden light pole that is covered with staples from prior flouters. There are so many advertisements attached to the pole that he has to reach up, on his toes, to attach the final one, firmly, six staples for that piece. The electric company rep will be by within a few days to do their monthly (or so) de-papering. I prefer the community-based adverts to the blank pole.

A bald older man just entered the coffee shop. He sees a barista and makes a gesture that looks disturbingly like a Nazi salute but then he bows awkwardly and fist bumps the barista. I doubt that he’s a Nazi. They’re rare around here and would most likely get thrown out of the place. Also, I doubt that they fist bump. 

Years ago, a woman on the street screamed the N word at a passing car. People on the sidewalk turned and started toward her, booing. I’ve never been prouder. They got closer, a dozen people, booing, while she backed up, trying to defend the slur. They just booed louder because there is no justification. She finally turned, flipped them the bird, and hurried up the alley toward Howe Street. Everyone cheered and then turned away, going back to their activities like nothing had happened. 

A guffaw has burst, unlooked (unlistened?) for, from the man sitting at a table on the sidewalk. He’s talking to a woman sitting across from him. I wish I were close enough to eavesdrop because she seems funny. I could use a guffaw or two.

Back briefly from my CNF writing to report that I have scored the seat next to the Great Guffawer, though he seems to have run through today’s quota of laughs.

A very pretty man walks by, meandering speed. I recognize this because I, too, am a meanderer. He pauses just beyond the coffee shop door and turns to look back the way he came, clearly waiting. I must tell you (yes, I am literally obligated to comment on all the attractive men who pass by; there are rules, you see) that this man has chiseled cheekbones and a well-kept beard. He’s not smiling, giving off the romance-trope impression of a grumpy man whose sunshine woman is walking toward him. She holds up a wrist and encourages him to smell it. Without a doubt, she was trying perfumes at Sephora. He leans into her wrist and sniffs, then nods; no smiles make an appearance. He’s going in the next novel. Sorry, not sorry.

A young man is standing outside, singing and dancing. He stops once to look at himself in his phone’s camera, fixes his hat, and continues to sing and dance quite awkwardly. He’s not the next Joy Machine, though I wish him well in his efforts to grow into that *something*. He dances off down the street a bit, out of sight but not out of hearing range. I hope he’s not trying to be discovered here. It’s the wrong neighborhood to expect to find a talent agent.  

Have you ever heard of Labi Siffre? I recommend that you check out “Bless the Telephone.”

A very tall Grandpa walks by holding hands with a tiny, tiny boy who dances along on his toes, his heels never touching the ground as he sings nonsense words. His little baseball cap is tilted to the side, looking, finally, correct when the boy tilts his head for a moment and catches my eye before dancing on, music on his tongue and in his feet.

A breeze rustles the napkin on my table and the strings on my blouse, disrupting, too, my confused musings. I wish it would blow the dust from my brain, a wish that remains ungranted. I’m trying to write something that may be unwritable, though I continue to try. Where are the words? Perhaps the next breeze will bring some.

Much love.