Briefly

Christopher was eating a buttered croissant today.

Until now, he had been 'the man with the brown cap' or 'the man with the arts and leisure section'.

Today, I decided that his name would be Christopher.

I have known Christopher intimately for quite some time as the resident of the north-most table of our corner Starbucks, never without a latte and, for this reason, never without foam on the upper right half of his lip which, I had to assume, protruded further than the upper left half of his lip which always seemed to remain unfrothed. I had never seen Christopher eat before and paused in admiration of this uncanny phenomenon, a change in my morning routine that made me a devastating two minutes early to work rather than my usual five.

I've concluded that I've grown too fond of early daydreaming and resolve to postpone the bad habit to later in the afternoon.

Today was a Tuesday, so Christopher was sitting alone with his right leg crossed over his left. He always sits that way on Tuesdays. Mondays are the opposite while Wednesdays find him leaning sideways on his impossibly narrow elbows. On Thursdays he doesn't lean on anything because his daughter joins him on Thursdays and she prefers to be the one leaning on him.

Children always humanize the morning coffee drinkers.

The camera zooms out and I realize that I too am just an extra in a stranger's life.

Cut.

My cellphone rings and it's all the people I've forgotten to call again, and I swear it's not for lack of wanting to but for excess of distraction.

Cut.

The train car's empty. I look around for signs of spilled soda or distasteful perfume, but no, the train car is just empty. I think it's warm enough to take off my gloves.

Cut.

The train car's full. The train car's full and I am empty. I put my gloves back on, embracing fever.

Cut.

Someone's singing an obbligato line to the buzzing of a radiator. My arm knocks over the bottle of menthol I've been abusing and I burn my hand. F sharp.

Cut.

The santa clauses are on parade. It's finally snowing. The cashier hands me my change and I notice a week has passed. Christopher watches as I zip up my coat and pull on my earmuffs. I wonder if he thinks that the fur is real - that I am leaving for a morning at the spa before an evening at the Met.

He notices that I put more weight on my left leg than on my right and, for this reason, the heel on that boot is slightly shorter. He assumes I'm off to work.

I catch his eye and nod at the croissant on his plate. "The usual?"
He smiles. "My daughter has your scarf."

I take that as a compliment. I do not tell him about the froth. Christopher returns to his paper and I return to my early daydreaming.

I'll see him tomorrow.