She hates the coffee chain on the corner, but it’s open late. And they have this sparkling black iced tea drink that only a shot of tequila could make better. She sits facing in, although she imagines the common practice when you are alone is to sit with your back to the heart of the shop, looking blankly out onto the street corner outside. But this way she can see the people inside the shop, boring as they are this evening. A lot of medical students she thinks.
Most of the shop is taken up by one of those long family style tables that have recently been popping up in the so-called trendy cafes—a failed attempt to make these quiet spaces more social. A brand new table beat into looking as if it’s been distressed over time and picked up at some vintage store down the street. This shop even has perfectly mismatched chairs and benches, alternating in such a way that she knows they were made to be together. A well constructed floor plan begging to look unplanned.
And yet there they sit. Three students. A textbook, a workbook, and a laptop. Two pens and a pencil. Two notebooks, though one is a legal pad and the other spiral bound. One cup of water and three empty coffee cups, all different sizes and no doubt previously containing three different forms of caffeine.
The boy in the corner seat closest to her is doing a good job of pretending that he is studying. He even has the glasses to complete the part. He holds the pencil above his workbook, hovering just above the words, as if ready to underline or furiously scribble a note of importance in the margin at any second. And yet, the pencil hasn't moved in minutes, and he hasn't turned a page in nearly a half hour. Sometimes he brings both hands to the side of his face, less out of shock and more out of exhaustion, as if holding his head steady might bring the material in front of him back into focus. But she knows this won't work and as if on cue, he begins to pack up his bag, and before another minute passes, he has left the shop.
She turns to observe the other two, but sees that there might not be more to see than the surface tonight. The girl, with stuff sprawled across the middle of the table, has been taking chunks of text from her book and copying them word-for-word into her legal pad all night long. There isn't a look of stress about her-- it is after all just the start of the school year. Her nails recently manicured a pale pink, her hair recently washed and dried and pulled into an effortless yet neat high bun, her eyebrows recently shaped. She has on a delicate pair of earrings that match the ring on her right ring finger. In every sense, she is the typical student:
Most of the shop is taken up by one of those long family style tables that have recently been popping up in the so-called trendy cafes—a failed attempt to make these quiet spaces more social. A brand new table beat into looking as if it’s been distressed over time and picked up at some vintage store down the street. This shop even has perfectly mismatched chairs and benches, alternating in such a way that she knows they were made to be together. A well constructed floor plan begging to look unplanned.
And yet there they sit. Three students. A textbook, a workbook, and a laptop. Two pens and a pencil. Two notebooks, though one is a legal pad and the other spiral bound. One cup of water and three empty coffee cups, all different sizes and no doubt previously containing three different forms of caffeine.
The boy in the corner seat closest to her is doing a good job of pretending that he is studying. He even has the glasses to complete the part. He holds the pencil above his workbook, hovering just above the words, as if ready to underline or furiously scribble a note of importance in the margin at any second. And yet, the pencil hasn't moved in minutes, and he hasn't turned a page in nearly a half hour. Sometimes he brings both hands to the side of his face, less out of shock and more out of exhaustion, as if holding his head steady might bring the material in front of him back into focus. But she knows this won't work and as if on cue, he begins to pack up his bag, and before another minute passes, he has left the shop.
She turns to observe the other two, but sees that there might not be more to see than the surface tonight. The girl, with stuff sprawled across the middle of the table, has been taking chunks of text from her book and copying them word-for-word into her legal pad all night long. There isn't a look of stress about her-- it is after all just the start of the school year. Her nails recently manicured a pale pink, her hair recently washed and dried and pulled into an effortless yet neat high bun, her eyebrows recently shaped. She has on a delicate pair of earrings that match the ring on her right ring finger. In every sense, she is the typical student:
