twelve o’clock / shy looking man with big hands absorbed in small pocket law dictionary
ten o’clock / two women one man talking about chanting and meditation, folded arms; slow, thinking speech; occasional laugh
eleven o’clock / symphony of spoons and a plastic green tractor, infant in pompom beanie saying bye bye to his parents and, of course, going nowhere
and then me, barely reading Foucault, cupping smallsized mediumroast with soy and dash of cinnamon.
maybe I love cafes so much because they are the intersection of so many lines?