MC: We sat a few feet apart but never made eye contact

Dear patrons of the Church Street Cafe,
It’s a Monday evening and you read/write/type diligently and unobtrusively with a vibe that’s part elder center, part beatnik writer convention, part poor student haven. I feel like a voyeur watching you not watching me.

Patron #1: You’re forty-something, overweight with a too-thin ‘stache; glasses low on the nose, wedding band, denim shirt layered over an Obama-superman tee; reading a graphic novel, drinking coffee and water. When you leave, the guy behind the counter says goodbye by name.

Patron #2: You’re wearing a giants cap and a brown leather jacket, cocooned in big headphones; scruffy beard and ‘stache but not cultivated enough to be hipster; drinking a ginger beer, scribbling in a Moleskin notebook, iPhone 4S lying in close reach.

Patron #3: Your glasses look like my dad’s — oversized aviators with thin gold rims — which don’t match your casual lime green tech startup hoody and slouched sprawl; youngish and Asian; reading a paperback on meditation, with a stainless thermos and mug of tea.

Patrons #4+5: You’re both older gentlemen with white hair, crisp but comfortably dressed in the muted fall colors of wine and dried leaves; playing backgammon with a travel set at the table against the front window; a handful of peanut M&Ms sit in an upturned plastic coffee cup lid.

Heard:
“Ginger beer, and make it snappy!”
“Give me more of that hot stuff.” “Which one?” “The water.”