He was smoking a fucking cheroot. At least that's what drew her attention to him at the adjacent picnic table, where a soft conversation was conducted aimlessly among the only 3 smokers in the courtyard. She wasn't sure which was the worst aspect of this social visit to a neighborhood hangout -- smokers, dogs, or babies (there was a kind of kindergarten in the furthest corner, a natural antipode to the Smoking Table). In this scene she wasn't remarkable for scribbling in a book, since facing her on the far side was a couple conspicuously quaffing and reading guide books ("Let's Go Brooklyn"?). She hoped the smokers would beat it; cigars are not as cool as they think.
He has to spit, too. That's part of the cheroot-toking mystique. What's mostly a gas is just watching people without the benefit of sunglasses, since it's not really a sunny day for shades, and she never minds staring around herself out of the coke-bottom glasses directly from a vantage point aged by 20 years. And the smokers left, and the Stout was delicious.
Three toddlers continued unrestrainedly racing up and down the entrance ramp, completely ignorant of the Americans with Disabilities Act. She wondered for a minute if anyone would steal her front bicycle wheel; pretty soon she would stop locking the bike altogether, just to see. She was a rich woman in her own estimation, who could afford to lose a bicycle. She could imagine the excitement of something sexier. Which thought might have ended her reverie... except for the squealing of the youngest patron, and the realization that the child-centered crowd behind her had ordered a pizza or similar and were settling in for good, effectively bringing an end to her interest in this particular watering hole (during the daylight hours, anyway)
My dear, so cerebral! Here we have a point-of-view piece from a middle aged woman's perspective [could be the author?] There is some perception of grittiness (cigar, pizza, spitting, theft) and clear judgment about these things, but no depth to the judgment. I yearned for something emotional, some description of physical sensation, to go beyond her cool veneer, to sense her inner ticking. The tantalizing daydream about having her bicycle stolen, this seemed intriguingly odd. "She could imagine the excitement of something sexier." Sexier than a bicycle? Sexier than having a bicycle stolen? Why is that sexy to this woman? It sounds a bit... S&M? Interesting. You never know about the people you're sitting next to in a cafe!
ReplyDeleteA Vespa would be sexier. And what about, "When is a cigar not a cigar?"
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