Thoughts from Places: Starbucks

He is crouched in a corner, almost out of view, more engrossed in his ipod than his melting frappochino. Perhaps he bought it so it wouldn’t look as though he was loitering, but what sort of person buys a drink he doesn’t want, just to sit somewhere and scroll through his songs. I’m noticing now that all the whipped cream is gone, only the smallest ring remains on the edges of the thawing drink. So perhaps he is the sort of man that enjoys the simple things in life, the dollops of whipped cream, songs he’s already heard. Now he’s taking a sip, stretching his fingers before he types another phrase--so perhaps it isn’t an ipod. Maybe it is his phone. This changes everything. What sort of guy buys a drink he doesn’t want just to sit outside of a café he doesn’t particularly enjoy just to type trite phrases to some girlfriend from somewhere faraway. I don’t like him anymore. *** There are four older people at the table. Two men, two ladies. He looks like Clint Eastwood. And that’s the reason he’s with this chick next to him. She liked Clint Eastwood back when he was in that movie Dirty Hairy. She saw it when she was young. But she isn’t anymore. Wait, I can tell Clint isn’t with this chick. I think she’s the other guy’s wife. I know this because of the look of earnest enthusiasm when he looks at her. The other guy—mustache man. He just looks bored; bored with both women. He’s doesn’t care much for Eastwood, for obvious reasons. He’s watching the two hipster kids pull away in their hipster SUV. Maybe he’s wishing he was with him.