I walked to the farthest grocery store, remembering decades of walking to grocery stores (before I moved to the States, to Wisconsin) and I taddled between the shade and sunlight, liking one and then the other and wondering why there was no one, no one on the sidewalk, beside me.
Toward the end, I stopped at the café closest to my home (Sundance 608) and I just could not understand why it was the way it was: a line of solo café habitués, doing their own thing, saying nothing, listening to no one.
I took my double shot of espresso with a splash of the white stuff and left quickly.
2 comments:
Perhaps the fellow on the left is writing the Great American Novel. One never knows.
On the other hand it does indeed look like a pretty dull place.
I had to giggle at dande's comment . . I had a similar thot about that guy . . let's just pretend it is - the next great American novelist.
Post a Comment