Feet to the floor
Continued from Be clutch, don't choke.
The weather is weirdly warm for this time of year. Usually I'd be wearing a few layers and covering my face whenever I walked outside. But today it's only about 5 degrees C. Warm enough to venture out and study in a cafe rather than hide out at home, anyway.
I glance across the intersection at Coffee Culture. It's packed anyway, and to be fair, I wouldn't be caught dead in there. I can't decide if it's worse than Starbucks. CHAÏ looks empty enough.
A little bell above the door rings as I elbow my way in, laptop under one arm and iPod in hand. A couple of men in their thirties glance over their shoulders at me then return to their conversation. One of them sits with his legs spread, hands behind his head, taking up as much room as possible. I choose a booth across from them and set myself up.
I've only been studying a little while when the man who has been making himself appear bigger slams his fist down on the table. I jump a little but quickly look back to my screen. He enunciates his words slowly and clearly to whoever he's with. Both parties look intense. Whatever they're speaking, it's not French or English. Maybe Arabic?
I readjust to set my computer on my lap as I continue to type, sitting along the length of the couch in the booth. I've barely been like this a minute when the angrier of the two turns his head slowly.
His glare is piercing and his disgust evident. He lifts his finger slowly and points directly at me, "Don't you ever," his words are slow and deliberate, "ever, point your feet towards me."
"Uhh," I reply slowly, which doesn't seem to satisfy him at all, "Sorry." I swivel my feet around and set my laptop on the table once more. I can feel him staring at me, but I just clack away on the keyboard, pretending to be immersed in study.
When he finally turns back to his friend, speaking quieter now, I pull my phone out.
Fuck, is all I text Jen.
What? she replies.
I'm coming home, just copped some flack from some fucking psycho at Chai.
The weather is weirdly warm for this time of year. Usually I'd be wearing a few layers and covering my face whenever I walked outside. But today it's only about 5 degrees C. Warm enough to venture out and study in a cafe rather than hide out at home, anyway.
I glance across the intersection at Coffee Culture. It's packed anyway, and to be fair, I wouldn't be caught dead in there. I can't decide if it's worse than Starbucks. CHAÏ looks empty enough.
A little bell above the door rings as I elbow my way in, laptop under one arm and iPod in hand. A couple of men in their thirties glance over their shoulders at me then return to their conversation. One of them sits with his legs spread, hands behind his head, taking up as much room as possible. I choose a booth across from them and set myself up.
I've only been studying a little while when the man who has been making himself appear bigger slams his fist down on the table. I jump a little but quickly look back to my screen. He enunciates his words slowly and clearly to whoever he's with. Both parties look intense. Whatever they're speaking, it's not French or English. Maybe Arabic?
I readjust to set my computer on my lap as I continue to type, sitting along the length of the couch in the booth. I've barely been like this a minute when the angrier of the two turns his head slowly.
His glare is piercing and his disgust evident. He lifts his finger slowly and points directly at me, "Don't you ever," his words are slow and deliberate, "ever, point your feet towards me."
"Uhh," I reply slowly, which doesn't seem to satisfy him at all, "Sorry." I swivel my feet around and set my laptop on the table once more. I can feel him staring at me, but I just clack away on the keyboard, pretending to be immersed in study.
When he finally turns back to his friend, speaking quieter now, I pull my phone out.
Fuck, is all I text Jen.
What? she replies.
I'm coming home, just copped some flack from some fucking psycho at Chai.
Comments
Reading on.