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I get like this sometimes.
Sitting warm and lazy in a coffee shop, feeling stupidly smug while watching the men in suits/women in suits line up to buy coffee to take to the office where they’ll probably do something astonishingly dull with spreadsheets and go to meetings where they’ll remove their suit coats and hang them on the back of a chair while they discuss their spreadsheets, and I’ll be sitting here thinking I should flirt with the barista — the one with six earrings in her left ear — who’ll be intrigued by this older guy sitting so casually in the coffee shop instead of working in an office full to the gutters with spreadsheets, and she’ll ask to meet me after she finishes her shift and we’ll drink pinot grigio and she’ll say she’s really a poet (no, not a poet — poets are too pretentious — a painter) and we’ll rent a little house and turn it into a studio where she can paint and I can write and one day I’ll ask her if she really needs to wear six earrings in her left ear all the time, and she’ll look at me like I’m wearing a suit and work with spreadsheets.
I get like this sometimes.
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