She is a shy looking girl sitting with an athletic shy-looking boy. Both are blondes and aren’t speaking. Now he raises his eyes from his Italian dictionary and talks to her. Her face animates and she returns the passing-the-time-reading events calendar to the tabletop. Is it awkward? He is listening to music. Or seems to be to anyone watching, who will see the black wires hanging from his ears. He wears a while, flat rimmed baseball hat that represents no team.
A less-shy looking girl joins the table. She is also blonde, and looks tired.
He wears blue sweatpants and a T-shirt decorated with a snowflake that tells us he is one of The Coolest Guys Around. Draped over his chair is a gray North Face fleece, like the one I left at home for its resemblance to ones like this. He may be a skater. Or at least likes their shoes.
He has a wide-eyed, yet simultaneously tired face that is framed by not-straight brown hair. He wears a bright purple fleece and a tie-dye shirt. He looks frenzied. Under the table are his legs, covered with snowman pajamas, though it is a Monday at 10:30am. Even his shoes scream unconventional, and are mottled with colors. Does he have something to prove? Or a sense of unique style. Meaning he uses style to prove his individuality, See?! Look, I’m different! Would you wear this?.
Or maybe he’s just color blind.
He stretches, and wishes that God bless the girl, not because she’s necessarily special, she just sneezed. He looks into space and mouths words to himself, presumably related to the notebook on the table and the pen in his hand. Or he’s using the notebook and pen to disguise insanity. But if he has to disguise it, then he recognizes it, and is it really insanity?
His movements are sluggish, as if his veins flow with something thicker. His words come out crisp and low, yet thin. He walks stiffly, his upper body is firmly affixed to his hips. He wonders aloud if the girl just left without saying goodbye. His friend (the frenzied one) doesn’t know, I’m oblivious and returns to his newspaper. He reaches for his green sweatshirt, hanging on his chair, and dons it; he takes his plates to the dish rack and leaves. He may or may not say goodbye.
He looks Jewish. I can say that because I’m Jewish. Well, half Jewish. But I look Jewish. It’s the Friedman nose, I think. And he wears headphones that fit his head a bit too well. The shape of his head, and his excited hair conspire to create an unfortunate illusion of squished-headness. The headphones are separate, attached to each ear, but appear to be squeezing his head like in those old Gushers commercials when people’s heads turned into fruits upon biting into the acid-filled fruitsnacks. Can you imagine the lawsuits? Like, if it really happened? What is the restitution for having one’s head turned into a giant cartoon fruit? I’d be pissed.
Whatever music he is listening to appears not to move him, for he is not moving. Maybe he doesn’t care if people think his music is moving him or not, and feels peaceful when he sits still. He is reading the newspaper. He rises to leave, carefully folding the pages and tucking it below his arm. Now standing, he looks slightly less Jewish for no particular reason.