I’m sitting by the door, watching the world go by. My view is uninterrupted – buses, cars and motorcycles turn on their headlights and find their way home. My table is full of the usual: books half-opened, pens attempting to roll off and my cup of hot chai tea latte. I’ve come to enjoy this drink in the past months. Every minute or so, the doors are pushed open and a potential customer strolls in, eyes already fixed on the menu.
It is not too quiet, for friends are catching up. I hear a muffled whisper, the soft harsh sounds that don’t sound that soft after all. Laughter escapes a coffee-stained mouth. The music in the cafe is instrumental – it feels like I should be meditating. But I am not falling asleep soon, for my tea latte will last me a couple of hours.
I see some workers outside carrying long pipes across the pavilion. They are in green with gloved hands. They work quickly and deftly. Must be rushing for the last bus home.
This lady stands at the door, not entering just yet. She spans the premises of the cafe, realizing there is not an empty seat, then walks away. Two Caucasian men are sitting in front of me, though we are separated by glass. They look like good friends catching up over a cup of coffee or two. I wish I would have a friend to talk to when I reach their age.
An empty bus passes by. The passengers have gone home, leaving the bus driver all alone.
I sip my drink; it has gone cold. I feel like this is the kind of situation where I should be writing a great poem. (The lady with the boisterous laughter is at it again. It’s nice to know someone’s happy.) But how cliched. To write a poem in a cafe.
The music has changed to one with beats. Now there’s some whistling too. The barista is starting to clear the tables. I wonder if I should be working too.