nothing of importancepublished: 2014-02-11
The man sits at the table where all the newspapers lay. He has finished his cup of coffee, a cappuccino. He is working on the newspaper’s crossword puzzles. I feel like he is trespassing somehow. Doing something that isn’t allowed. Leaving his mark on something that isn’t his, the way a graffiti artist would.
I sit down with my latte and study him. The way the sun catches on to his earlobe and strokes his heavy shoulders. He still has his jacket on. His pen sways between two fingers while he thinks. It’s not an easy task, apparently. It takes him a while and it holds his attention in the same way my son would study a mathematical sum. Boys drop their jaws when concentrating. The lower lip hangs against the mouth, the tongue against it. So do men.
When the man is finished, he asks for the newspaper I just finished reading. I hand it to him with a smile, but wonder why what he’s doing annoys me so much.
Perhaps it’s because he’s doing nothing of importance, really. And neither am I.