Lunchtime Impressions

Lunch outside, under the umbrella: turkey club on foccacia bread. Sun slanting along my arm and leg, both feet sunning themselves below crossed ankles. Low 80's, nice breeze, Hotel California on the loudspeakers. Iced tea, unsweetened, beads of moisture, chilling my fingers. Over its rim, I watch. Woman in black, hot pink bag with black polka dots, fluffing her hair as she approaches the door. Who is she meeting? Young man walks by, long-haired, shouldering a backpack and a red guitar, jeans dirty on the knees and ass. Does he pan-handle? Is he any good? Two national guardsmen conversing about the man in the army who shot his wife and himself when he returned from overseas. Starbuck's in hand, fine tremor -- is it caffeine or emotion? Glance at his face, expression impassive, yet eyes impassioned; oh if eyes could speak the secrets behind them. Mennonite women glide by, modest floral-print dresses, trailed by small boys in dark suits with curious eyes. How different their lives must be. Three motorcycle cops dismount. Adjusting their belts, one adjusts his package. Stepping up on the curb, heads turning, eyes scanning, scanning. Woman in business dress, good sensible Merrills on her feet, her friend wearing black strappy sandals and hip-huggers, her lime-green thong displayed behind, hips swaying. What are they saying? Does she know what they are saying? Pay the tab, thank the manager for a good meal as always, promise to give his regards to Steph. Stepping out into the full flood of the sun, swept away to work.