The coffee is too hot to sip so the seconds are stretched by pretending to read a book but actually reading the people at other tables. The guy in the lamp-lit corner is an artist, without a doubt. He is sitting by himself at a table that seats four, the tattered sweatpants along with the mop of curly brown hair gently drizzling dandruff into his coffee cup was enough to know he wasn't waiting for anyone else, but was typing into his phone like his fingers are competing in a game of Dance Dance Revolution. Coked up on caffeine and an everything bagel, he was hard at work. You could vaguely hear the phone blaring with the first parts of an alarm-sound before being muted by his instantaneous typing so, at the very least, there was someone he was avoiding talking to, which somehow made him more respectable. The occasional audible "Oh shit! That's so true," laced with a satisfied grin gave the clue that he was also impressed with the pictures he was viewing. There was no stopping the thoughts from flowing. Even if he wasn't writing poetry, there was something deeply poetic about him in this episode of tectonic texting. He was the embodiment of distraction.
The server walked over, a gentle ginger with the same hairstyle but tangerine in tone and smooth cheeks spangled with freckles instead of dandruff, and replaced his snowy mug with a fresh cup of steamy black coffee. He didn't bat an eye, not even to thank her. It was equal parts ignoring calls and sharing memes online, an intricate silhouette of staying engaged while totally avoiding engagement. It was a magical anti-dynamic to witness in real time, a waltz between worlds, seeing a person dance openly with the shadows of his own absence. Not a bad way to keep the adventure alive. This, too, was totally meme-worthy.
With nothing better to do, I reach for my phone with all intention of taking a picture of this random guy to embroider the moment with something clever sprawled across the bottom like, 'Mondays be like' or '#Mood' or 'Tell us you're single without telling us you're single,' for some relatable laughter to post on Instagram later on but felt nothing but napkins and crumbs on the side of the table. The phone wasn't there. It wasn't in any pockets or atop any nearby shelves or in a puddle outside on the sidewalk because it was still on the bed charging at home. Forgotten but not lost. While the Google Pixel 4 is unable to help in the extorting of someone else's moment, it is guilty of assuring the coffee eventually gets cool enough to sip at least one table in this unnamed cafe.
Some say the universe itself speaks through coincidence, and sometimes it tells you gently, with a considerate cosmic whisper, "Don't be an asshole."
