A barista pours a leaf pattern in the top of a latte, panicking briefly near the end, and her coworkers cheer her.
A couple sitting at a table next to mine are talking with a realtor about an apartment in my building.
It dawns on me that the work I’d set out to do is more complicated than I’d thought it would be.
I’m distracted from work when I rediscover instant messenger.
To my surprise, Samantha slips in beside me with her coffee.
A woman screams at the baristas, “How can I be homophobic? I’m a lesbian myself!”
I close my laptop, Samantha is finishing the last several pages of her book, so I read a few pages of mine.
I wander over to the front and get a glass of water.
The barista and a police officer are filling out a trespassing complaint against the woman who’d made the scene earlier.
Two children play on an old Mac in the back corner. Music erupts occasionally from their computer’s tinny speakers.
Samantha finishes her coffee and the last page of Swann’s Way, and I ask her how it was. She says that Proust was very interested in recording all his memories. I mention that the book I was reading is about recalling memories, and I remark that its writer, wrote the most recent English translation of Swann’s Way.