Friday Night

Bare brick walls, open beam ceilings, simple, art-deco benches and chairs; it’s Friday night at the coffee shop. I order my Chai and survey the other patrons as I wait. There are a couple of girls by the front door with textbooks open, but their conversation doesn’t seem much related to their studies. There are four Asian guys – each with a laptop open concentrating diligently on the screens in front of them. I open my own laptop. We’re all losers, I think. It’s Friday night. Surely we could all find a party somewhere.

There are only two people in the place not even pretending to study: a lesbian couple sharing a piece of cake and talking quietly over their cups of coffee. The woman nearest my seat is quite pretty and put together, the other is thick-set and dressed in baggy jeans, a pollo shirt, oversized jacket and newsies cap. She wears men’s earrings.

I left my headphones in the car. Perfect. I close my computer and shove it back in the bag. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” I tell the barista, and she smiles patiently as she steams the milk for my chai.

It’s cold outside, but there’s a guy sitting in the dark at one of the outdoor tables anyway. He sips his coffee and watches the traffic pass. He surveys me curiously as I pass him for the second time in five minutes with nothing to show for my time inside. I blush slightly and hurry to the car.

There’s a diner in front of where I parked. It’s dark and locked up for the night, but I can still see the special in the window. Eggs, bacon, pancakes and coffee for less than what I paid for my chai. Why would a student think she could afford coffee shop prices?

On my way back, the guy at the table laughs, “Forget the power chord?”

I grin, “headphones.” I hold them up so he can see. He smiles through his scruffy beard. Since when did I like facial hair? I smile and pause, but I can’t think of anything to say so I wave and head inside.

My paper isn’t getting done. I keep leaning forward to look out the window to see if he’s still there, sitting almost next to me on the other side of the brick wall. But it’s not long before he leaves. I suppose I should get to work. . .

Just before bed . . .

There are certain times, and certain states of mind in which one should not be allowed to write. Times when tiredness, and sleeplessness, and sentimental music and looming lists of “things to do” make writing a tempting escape. But those are the very same times that the computer should be turned off without a thought to the endless blank Word documents and faceless internet readers. Much better instead to spend the evening re-reading a Jane Austen novel. . . or perhaps watching a Jeremy Northam movie. Or, I suppose, watching Emma, which is kind of a combination of the two.

So Alexandria girls, wanna fix a batch of sinful popcorn and join me? Not tonight? You’re right, I suppose it is getting rather late. I suppose I should power down and head to bed.

Miss you!

Saturday Fading. . .

Jimmy Stuart's voice fills the little house. Tonight, he has a western drawl, the annoying, affected accent found only in 1950s cowboy movies, even more exaggerated by the amazing volume at which the television is set. I wonder idly whether Grandpa turns the volume up because he is deaf, or whether he's deaf because he turns the volume up. At least Grandma doesn't seem to mind.

I make myself a cup of tea and steal a slightly overcooked sugar cookie from the bright red tin on the kitchen counter. My room is just down the hall from the television, but with the door closed, the ceiling fan on high, and music from the internet radio, I am finally able to drown out the sound of the movie. I nibble my cookie as I settle in to read A Communist Manifesto.

It's a quiet sort of Saturday evening. There's a calm safety to the business of studying on the weekend. For a little while, it will feel good to be productive. And then I'll go to bed.