It was the first 80-degree day of the year. I sat outside of a coffee shop comparing “el cisne al modernismo” and enters a girl maybe my age, sitting down close to me, blowing bubbles into the flow of traffic on the sidewalk. A homeless man, dirty, with a large bag drooped over his shoulder smiles at her.
“Try not to kill anyone with those.”
An old woman comes out of the store next door and walks up to a man with an army printed backpack.
“Are you Travis?” She asks.
They sit down, exchanging handshakes and papers.
The bubble girl’s boyfriend comes out of the shop with coffee in hand.
He plays with the bubbles and gets disappointed when they don’t pop upon contact. Then they get serious.
The table I work at is uneven and it shakes every time I shift the weight of my arms. My knee goes into a spider web hidden under the table. There’s a Daddy Long Legs at my knees, but I don’t care.
The boyfriend says “I’m tired of sleeping… But I’m tired of being tired when I’m awake.”
Someone passing on the sidewalk loudly and openly forgets where they parked their bike.
Across the patio, a blind man tries to flirt with Anna. She didn’t ask his name so I don’t know it. He tells her that she’s going to change the world and leaves. He’s sorry for bothering her.
A little girl with hand-me-down shoes pushes instead of pulls the door, and her mom helps.
Having to be part of this seems to be the real tragedy… But is it?