at think coffee south of union square. i like the décor: old, dark, worn wooden floor, tin ceiling painted white, dark wood and upholstery, marble-topped tables, spare lamps, gray walls. rihanna disconcertingly echoes from white speakers in the corners. i attempt dancing on my high wooden stool until i catch ryan's eye and he gives me a look, feigning embarrassment.
my latte is delightfully creamy and bitter with white feathers of foam across the top. the woman working the latte machine is dark like chocolate, with a red patterned head scarf and a large, fuzzy, caftan-like draping. i don't know how she can stand the heat. she says "an order of dumplings" in a clear, booming voice. a pale girl with a curly, tawny mohawk sits at a back table in a black hoody with a skull drawing on it. the skull has its own green mohawk. she wears all black clothes, not torn, but with lots of zippers. she has cultivated a determined androgyny. i do not doubt she is a girl, though--is it her mannerisms? her long-fingered hands? she has tiny spacers in her ears. i strain to see her textbook, but it is too far away. no pictures. i imagine it must be literature, anthropology, political theory. i want to be proved wrong, but know that we are of the same cloth, to an extent.
two french-looking dudes in stripes with tan, grizzled faces just left. a small man remains at their long table who reminds me of a jewish wes anderson--but wouldn't that be jason schwartzman? he wears a blue checked button down tucked into jeans, a brown belt, and has a black wool coat draped over his chair. brown lace-ups that look like an expensive bar in brooklyn, with visible white socks covering the space between his shoes and the hem of his jeans. he stands: skinny jeans. he has round, reddish-brown plastic glasses that are slightly horn-rimmed, and a navy totebag that says "melville house/the art of the novel" in skinny white capital letters, in a sans serif font.
almost everyone in the back row has large, dark, visible tattoos. the exception is one woman who looks like she just came from the gym. she is drinking orange juice and has hot pink ribbing on her zip up sweatshirt. she might be a law student. mohawk girl removes her hoody to reveal a loose black tank that says "no age" in red, over a black tube top. next to her is an older, mid-30s mixed race/asian guy, with a white pearl button shirt with slanted brown stripes, a black toque, and stubble. he has delicate features, and his early beard reminds me of the girl playing boy drummer in the hedwig movie--the one who leaves to join the cast of rent. he is drinking coconut water. i am conscious of myself observing, part of this scene.
a tall light-skinned black man walks by with a pleasant expression. his face looks like an herbivorous dinosaur, or a platypus. like a billed dinosaur. he has long, well-kept dreads that are tied back, and he wears a checked brown wool blazer with elbow patches. he is clean shaven and there is a scar across his chin. i shift my gaze to the bad collage art on the walls. there are painted sketches on mostly blank squares of canvas. the artist is maria marshall. her email address is on a chalkboard over the bar. i will not email her.
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