After waiting for my order, I scan the crowded shop – the woman engrossed in a novel, the man studying a textbook, the older couple chatting at a small corner table. I notice an unoccupied chair near the windows, and I inquire of a man nearby whether anyone is using it. "No, well, you are," he replies, smiling. I smile in response as I set my books on an end table and settle myself into the armchair. He eyes the uppermost book (All Creatures Great and Small), remarking, "Herriot, eh?" "He's an exceptional author," I answer.
I initially mistake his eagerness to talk as a sign of a sanguine personality, but I quickly alter my assessment. Here is an introvert pleased with the good fortune of finding a conversation partner. We talk about Herriot's depiction of England, other English novelists, Charles Dickens, about linguistics, the economy. While he talks, I study his appearance. It requires little effort to see why his thinning, gray hair is disheveled. He has a habit of running his fingers through his hair while he speaks. He mentions that he is a writer, and I smile to myself. His demeanor supports that claim perfectly, though I had supposed him to be a professor. He is wearing a blue and purple polo shirt; dark slacks; scuffed tennis shoes; round, wire frames; brown sports coat with three buttons at the cuff...
He rummages through his black satchel, removes a book with a worn, red leather cover, and begins searching its pages. After a few moments, he locates the page – an illustration of the midshipman from "Dombey & Son" – and shows it to me, explaining that it's an important reference point for the townspeople in the story. I admit that I have only ever read Oliver Twist and A Tale of Two Cities, so he tells me about Dombey and why it's such an amazing book. After an hour or so, he decides he should probably return to writing. He removes his laptop from its case and begins to tap at the keys.
I continue to study for finals, pausing occasionally to take a sip of my soy mocha, and to note his expression. Pensive, thoughtful, solemn... After thirty or so minutes pass, I notice that he seems rather frustrated, so I sigh loudly at my notebook and push it away from me, remarking on the annoyances that accompany final exams. He tells me about the difficulties he is having with a book he's been working on for the past twenty years. He begins to explain the storyline, and I smile as I listen to the complicated plot, little wondering at the obstacles to composing such an intricate narrative. He speculates aloud whether he'll ever complete it, and I tell him he had better because I would very much like to read it.
We talk whenever the monotony begins to wear on us, until his laptop battery gets low and he moves to another table near an outlet. No one takes his place in the armchair opposite me. Two women are chatting away at a table to my right, a couple converses while their toddler dances and twirls in the open space near the door. He's wearing Chucks. He's so little, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He spins nearer to my chair in an attempt to gain my notice, and I smile at him, earning myself a smile in return. Eventually, his parents leave. A while later, the writer organizes his belongings. He waves to me as he walks out the door.
I initially mistake his eagerness to talk as a sign of a sanguine personality, but I quickly alter my assessment. Here is an introvert pleased with the good fortune of finding a conversation partner. We talk about Herriot's depiction of England, other English novelists, Charles Dickens, about linguistics, the economy. While he talks, I study his appearance. It requires little effort to see why his thinning, gray hair is disheveled. He has a habit of running his fingers through his hair while he speaks. He mentions that he is a writer, and I smile to myself. His demeanor supports that claim perfectly, though I had supposed him to be a professor. He is wearing a blue and purple polo shirt; dark slacks; scuffed tennis shoes; round, wire frames; brown sports coat with three buttons at the cuff...
He rummages through his black satchel, removes a book with a worn, red leather cover, and begins searching its pages. After a few moments, he locates the page – an illustration of the midshipman from "Dombey & Son" – and shows it to me, explaining that it's an important reference point for the townspeople in the story. I admit that I have only ever read Oliver Twist and A Tale of Two Cities, so he tells me about Dombey and why it's such an amazing book. After an hour or so, he decides he should probably return to writing. He removes his laptop from its case and begins to tap at the keys.
I continue to study for finals, pausing occasionally to take a sip of my soy mocha, and to note his expression. Pensive, thoughtful, solemn... After thirty or so minutes pass, I notice that he seems rather frustrated, so I sigh loudly at my notebook and push it away from me, remarking on the annoyances that accompany final exams. He tells me about the difficulties he is having with a book he's been working on for the past twenty years. He begins to explain the storyline, and I smile as I listen to the complicated plot, little wondering at the obstacles to composing such an intricate narrative. He speculates aloud whether he'll ever complete it, and I tell him he had better because I would very much like to read it.
We talk whenever the monotony begins to wear on us, until his laptop battery gets low and he moves to another table near an outlet. No one takes his place in the armchair opposite me. Two women are chatting away at a table to my right, a couple converses while their toddler dances and twirls in the open space near the door. He's wearing Chucks. He's so little, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He spins nearer to my chair in an attempt to gain my notice, and I smile at him, earning myself a smile in return. Eventually, his parents leave. A while later, the writer organizes his belongings. He waves to me as he walks out the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment