Swirling the frozen chunks of ice infused with strawberry with my tounge, I notice two men openly gay sitting on a green couch. The one in the red shirt is talking about his 3 day weekends between luxurious sips of his golden iced tea, I can sea the condensation forming on the roof of his cup, his fingerprints are all over the sides, as his spot of grabbing the cup of iced tea is continuous. His head is leaning on his right arm which is inbedded in the plush couch. His partner I pressume is talking in a barely audible pitch, though he is making motions with his hands. The chair in front of me made of solid wood is blocking the bulk of his beverage, I can see ice, I can see droplets of liqiud falling off the ice as the warmth of the air engulfes the ice, the ice is holding on but cannot withstand the sultry day that is slowly whithering into dusk.
My chair creaks as I shift, my left fingers have a slight dampness from the strawberry smoothies cup, soft harmonica is accompanying a classic blues song in the back round, the street swirls with the blur of traffic, the gay partner of the red shirted iced tea man has spun around and is lying on the couch now, his hands clenched above his head in an obvious sign of relaxation, a women with a pink side bag of the hipster sort just left the shop, a gust of air from her passing is appreciated by all in the room, the sudden stir of the swolen air brings relief to the tired souls studying, writing, sipping cups of joe, comtemplating life, and just thanking G-d for coffee shops other then Starbucks.
My chair creaks again and I appologize to the bald black man sitting intently in front of a white flickering screen, he has papers all around him and barely notices me, I appologize louder, this time he asks me what I am appologizing for as if he is in some foriegn land. I can creak in peace now. An old black man wails away on the blues guitar and sings in his smoky voice. I imagine a Chicago blues session in some old bar in the south side, old black men and women gather round and tell stories of the old south accompanied by the harmonica and six strings they call their weapons of fortitude. Smoke swirls about the men as they jam, onlookers drink cheap beer and moonshine.
This table I am at is worn from years of conversation, studying, countless computer scruffs and glasses and cups soming in direct contact with the hard light brown wooded surface. Scrufs, scars and scrapes tell the story of this table and what it has gone through. The condensation from my cup of iced smoothie is forming a small round puddle at its base. Alm ost all the ice chunks have melded into the drink and its mostly smooth without the eee.
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