There’s something mysteriously rewarding about spending time alone in Starbucks.
Sitting near the glasswalls like how the Parisiens do it, there’s someone outside on my right with orange ear plugs. After two hours I still can’t distinguish whether the person is a male or a female but one thing I can be certain about: the person is in peaceful bliss.
For the past two hours, he (I just found out!) has been flicking his glowing cigarette on the black ash try near where his mobile devices were. Grooving to whatever is playing on his iPhone, head nodding and finger tapping on the arm of the wicker seat like it is a drum, people who passed by where he sat never failed to notice his grey — with some streaks of brownish gold — bush.
The reason I couldn’t figure out his gender is because his back was facing me the whole time and he rarely tilted or turned his head to look around. Most of the time he stared straight, almost unwittingly focused on everything far away from him, with his back vaguely slouched and his shoulders relaxed like he was free from any form of burden, and so far only two people caught his eye and snapped him out of his analgesic world but only one of them mattered.
Dressed in a black and white striped blouse, the lady smiled with the charm of a wife reuniting with her husband at the man. Upon being graced with it, the man made open arm gestures hoping she would stay for a casual catch up but she showed signs of a tight schedule and only gave him a warm pat on his shoulders, indicating it made her glad to see an old friend. This brief encounter discouraged him slightly but back he slipped into his daydream where every action had no severe consequences, only rewarding ones.