They look so tortured and it makes me laugh. But I only laugh because really, as much as I try to buy converse and what not, I have no idea how to dress. New York style could take years to cultivate. This place is much hipper than me, and they write on notepads, instead of laptops, for the same reasons they play record players and buy only vinyl.
Outside are golden brown leaves on dark gray pavement, next to wooden folding chairs and little square tables that are chained down, because, after all, this is New York. And new Yorkers steal whatever is not chained down.
I kinda wish he’d talk to me with all that curly brown hair and all, but he’s too obsessed with his note pad to notice anything at all. Perhaps we are making notes about each other? Now that would be a very pretentious beginning, wouldn’t it?
I’m lucky to sit here, in the East Village, even though I can’t always afford it. I swear he’s making notes about me. Or perhaps he isn’t. And has a wife or boyfriend. That would be more likely. Looking up, writing down. Looking up, hunched over writing down. Look up. Why does he never look vertically, over at me?
I’m guessing it’s a poem and each word he chooses is like a piece of fruit at a supermarket, turning it over and making sure its perfect. I’d like to think he’s scribbling a poem about me. But he’s not. If anything, he’s writing something for his girlfriend (or boyfriend) in preparation for Valentine’s day.
Well I’ll be late for yoga if I don’t go now. So I guess I’ll never know.
As I get up and really look at him, I can see he's younger than I had thought and bit self-conscious actually. People always look more mysterious when you've only glanced at them for a few seconds from a flattering angle.
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