This morning I’m writing inside a crappy Corner Bakery, the once-upon-a-time fantastic restaurant chain that has turned sorta dirty and nasty. I’m eating oatmeal, sipping coffee, staring across the horizon at the next table, where a woman has caught my eye.
She looks to be about 10 years my senior. Glasses. Long brown hair. Plain features. Silver earrings. She’s wearing a bulky yellow sweater, and she has two napkins tucked into her neck line and a third sorta popping up from her lap. She’s drinking hot coffee with a straw, and keeps dumping packets of sugar into her oatmeal. She has today’s Orange County Register propped up in front of her, and keeps reading—only she hasn’t turned the page in the 10 minutes since I’ve been here. She’s lefty—at least she uses her left hand to stir and scoop. And her lips tend to purse, open, close, slide sans reason.
She’s quirky. But so am I.
And this is what makes life interesting.