Rainy day people. |
I pretend not to notice the grimed armrest, and I won’t think about the many butts that sunk and shifted in this soft lounger. I’m Cozy in my favorite cotton t-shirt: a Dylan print of blue and gray, the young waif blowing his harp. In the near seat sits a “granola.” I only recently learned this term, which means neo-hippie. She wears no shoes, but her feet are clean, and I like the turquoise earrings. She exudes Patchouli, and reads from a book titled “Toltec Wisdom.” My thumb pinches the pasty $2 brownie and the caramel layer oozes and strings a rope bridge from hand to mouth, which snaps when my arm extends. I take care not to smudge “Nightmare of Ecstasy: The Life and Art of Edward D. Wood Jr.,” the treasured bio I’ll buy before leaving. My lip sinks in the milk foam, carefully slurp tests the temperature of a $4 Café Au Lait. The lounger is comfortable but undignified to rise from. I create commotion getting turned to watch the rainstorm. Puddle jumping shoppers soak in strip-mall paradise. A string of caramel has tangled in Bob’s wild hair, and I discover the sticky milk line above my lip, and lick. I am a rain man who thrives on mild melancholy, perverse in my fascination with oddballs. I crunch a $3 blueberry scone, and send crumbs tumbling between the cushions. |