Delusional, maybe, but I have a fixed belief that my neighborhood beanery was specifically created with my preferences in mind. They have a clover coffee machine, free wifi, macaroni and cheese, Fellini movies, and Ian Curtis is often bleeding through the speakers. I go there under false pretenses—to study, to work on The Great American Novel, to drink a DAMN fine cup of coffee—but the primal motivation is to wrest my reclusive self from my apartment and engage in society in some way.
The scene is generally the same—rows of glowing s dot the tables lining the brick walls, a few Che Guevara t-shirts, knitted hats of some kind, iPhones. Intellectual malaise muffles strong emotions. The shop’s proximity to a grade school brings in mucus laden children who strangle their juice boxes while hanging precariously by one leg from a guard rail. Their guardians apathetically flick through The New York Times.
And me. Yankee hat attempts to hide my flaxen nest of knots and shield my observant eyes. My open laptop belies my fascination with others. I am in a bubble, the girl with the thorn in her side. I resent longing to fit in. My place among the patrons is unclear. I am drawn to both the observed hipster doofus nightmare and the activity of licking the vinyl upholstery. I am lost. In my caffeinated haze, I am lost.