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.
Perhaps the fellow on the left is writing the Great American Novel. One never knows.
ReplyDeleteOn 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.
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