Interrupt me, please


Coffee shops allow a plug-in to the energy of community.

Deep chairs, wingback, ram-rod straight wooden seats make the reach out happen.

Lean over to scoop up your book and settle back, feet tucked underneath your folded hips and bent knees. A turn to the first page says, I’m not talking unless you see the cover of my book and cannot resist a comment or a sigh, a wanting for the share the feelings evoked when reading the same lines.

Prop yourself up, feet on the stool,  face to the fire. Rest your head against the cradle of the formal but worn fabric of one of the best seats in the house. Lean an ear to the material, gently begin to close the eyes before someone rustles bags or jackets nearby . The instinctual shimmy into the corner of the seat to start that peaceful doze is not interrupted so much as acknowledged, appreciated, approved by someone putting the same effort into settling into the matching wingback.

In the other side of the shop, the little tables are glowing, the backlight of screens and the vibration of cells tells everyone that things are happening in the world.  Privacy is a necessity but few feel an imposition from nods about the news, chats filled with How are you answered in white lies like Fine. Sitting up tall in the seats with a mug and a mind,  lets ideas and keys make a difference, somewhere, not there, but somewhere outside.

I’ve got a morning of java, an outlet, an eye.  I’m plugged in, I’m checked out, but in this place there’s no shame. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

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