ulanmaya
20050417
  attempting prose in traffic
millennium park

One cannot begin to write properly in a café.

One interesting conversation after another folds itself over you so that the din succeeds in actually making your head throb.

The instrumentless bandmember shuffles to music stuck in his ears, and that's all you become attuned to - his careless conducting of invisible vibes, turning in time to a tune only he can hear. He suddenly stops and puffs his flavored cigarette, cinnamon, the smoke still white in the 8 p.m. Sunday night.

Strangely sometimes when you start tuning things out, the café's soulful sax jazz jam becomes intrusive when just a moment ago you and your friend were chatting, you could barely hear over your running typing. All you were attuned to were her words, “Please don't tell.

“He's proving to me that Conner is such a jerk. He can't stand the other guy,” she said, to which I replied, “Well, of course he can't stand a rival, even you. If someone else were after Jake, you'd be jealous too.”

She laughed. She agreed, “I might be jealous, depending on how they were behaving.”

Which reminds me of another girl who vented about her jealousy in an online journal, of all places.

“Damn girls! Stop flirting! It makes you look cheap!!!!!”

To which I wondered, when is it flirting and when is it just friendship? Where's the boundary that would show people whether you had already crossed the line of physically expressing one's most ancient, natural feelings?

Someone's smelly cheeseburger is also wafting its way toward me. EWWW. Didn't I just bound and cast all fried things away from me?! It is almost 9 p.m. This café never closes, but it's definitely time to catch a train back to the house.
 
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