I wrote this the old-fashioned way: pen and paper, then typed it here later. It is of no import, has no philosophical point, is not even a compelling story. Just a literary snapshot of a quiet moment in my day....
I am sitting in Starbucks. An empty brown paper bag containing apple fritter crumbs is on the small table to my left next to some crumpled napkins and my half-consumed grande Sumatra. I am so tired, I can barely push this pen across the paper. My eyelids are heavy, as are my arms, legs, and head. A bluesy, soulful cover of "Yesterday" is playing, a bit too loudly, threatening to lull me into a stupor.
As much as I usually enjoy the opportunity to sit alone in a coffee house to read, write, or just think, I am wishing very much that I were instead reclined on my couch, or still in bed. This week has been exhausting in every way, and the madness has just begun. I really wish this caffeine would kick in.
The Starbucks is filling with people now, along with all of the chatting, rustling, chair-scooting noise that fills the space around such groups. Did that guy really just order a skinny vanilla latte with extra whipped cream, then ask for a fork to eat it? One shouldn't have to eat coffee.
I like this Starbucks. It has a lot of these velvety upholstered chairs. It's cozy.
I think I've killed enough time. It's time to go find my couch for a while.
