Arabica

This faded old mansion, trying to recapture its bygone glory by housing this want-to-be cool, trendy, campus coffee house, has the atmosphere of some ancient, feral, watering hole, hunting ground.

You can feel the eyes and hot breath of its denizens, circling, watching, ready to pounce.

Prey and predator are easily distinguishable. Prey, no matter the size or gender, extends an aura of meek, surrendering, nervous fear as they find a seat, and perhaps the safety of anonymity.

The predators enter on stealthy, confident, muscular feet, ready to spring at the first hapless, easy prey. Their sharp, unblinking, cunning eyes evaluate each morsel as they slouch by, frequently raising their noses and sniffing the air for that palpable, sickly sweet fragrance, helpless fear.

Its crowded rooms emphasize my singularity, observer. As I gaze from table to table, with couples and little groups impressing and stroking each other, I notice the predators of this place, sitting alone, apparently absorbed, waiting for happenstance to provide.

And I sit in my corner, keenly aware of my solitude.

–LE

PS: Arabica was a coffee house close to the university where my son was going to art school. I would meet him there when I’d be in town for a visit. Students and ‘townies’ hung out there.