A few minutes into my reverie (which was everything I thought it would be), a shotgun laugh echoed through the coffee shop and I jolted from the recoil. Then it bubbled out with loud bursts and cackles. Silence. More laughter. I chuckled a little and wondered what was in the cup that guy was drinking.
A table away from me was this man of unclear age (28, I later learned), dressed in Jamaican-flag socks, madras shorts, and a loudly striped tank. Though it was 52 degrees outside, the tank conspicuously put two very muscular arms on display and I couldn’t help thinking they were the exact color of exquisite dark chocolate. A pair of neon Wayfarers with reflective shades rested on the table quietly.
I turned back to my journal and kept sifting through the thousands of thoughts that have been churning in my head this week while I’ve been doing more pressing things, like managing baby fluids.
“What’re you doing?” I heard someone say.
I assumed I wasn’t the recipient since clearly I was here for “me time”. My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of two eyes boring into the side of my head and I felt that brusque part inside of me bristle and tighten. I slowly rotated my head.
“Journaling,” I said, with a fabricated half grin. Journaling, that thing you do when you are being alone and reflective and not clung to by another human. “What are you laughing at?” I said.
“Aw, my stupid friends on Facebook. What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
He nods, warmly. “Eddy.”
I half smile again and restate myself with more enunciation this time. “Emily. What’s yours?”
“Eddy.”
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