He is any ordinary guy in a coffee shop. He is the kind who takes
the table adjacent to the window. As he sips his coffee in super slow mo
he looks like he has no care in the world but there is a difference
between appearance and reality.He looks like he has everything under
control,he has his act together. He has a small journal and a
calculator.You can be sure that he wont stain the table with coffee
rings because he is the type to put the porcelain cup back on the place mat.
He looks like an artist of some sort,like someone who would rather take the bus upcountry to visit his folks, than a fancy ride from a friend.He is proud of his heritage,he appreciates his African roots,he spots a neat Afro ,he has dark skin and strong arms that almost burst out of his shirt,filled with veins that tell stories of struggle and triumph...his hair gleams and glistens as the suns light illuminate the space around table 10 and table 12.He stares vacantly into space like he is thinking about nothing in particular but he doesn't come across as idle.he looks like he is supposed to be here at this particular cafe,at this particular time,on table twelve,sipping a cappuccino with two teaspoons of sugar...
He takes off his Ankara bow tie and I'm watching him intently from the counter as i dry some silverware and glassware.He loosens the top button of his crisp white shirt which is folded artfully on the arms.he sips his coffee which by now should be either cold or finished. He takes off a fountain pen from his Harris Tweed coat which he had hanged on the chair facing him,as if to say he didn't need any company.Those oleo who insist on sharing tables with you when there are obviously other tables in the cafe.he doesn't want to be distracted.
Who still owns a fountain pen at this day and age?who still inks pens and scribbles things,punching calculators...he should be typing off a mini laptop .
I straighten my hair and apron and go over to fill his cup since he looks like he needs more caffeine in his system.
He looks engrossed and buried in what he is doing... I cant help but peep at his book and i see a lot of numbers and tables,tables that remind me of balance sheets,profit and loss ,income statements and pro forma jargon that the years have erased off my memory.he closes the book when he notices I'm prying,he looks at me and smiles as i try pretend that i was looking somewhere else. He has these piercing eyes that make me immobile for a second or two.He is still smiling,revealing a perfect set of white teeth.
I almost smile back,but the way he reverts back to his business and his face is now serious and looking down to his calculator and whatever else.
I almost knocked him on the head,i almost said "dude! I was totally checking u out...i even sugared your coffee.is it because I'm just a waitress in this artsy coffee shop?is it because you are some business mogul or something!!" I shook my head,sighed and went to the couple in table 7 to take their order.(20/12/2012)
He looks like an artist of some sort,like someone who would rather take the bus upcountry to visit his folks, than a fancy ride from a friend.He is proud of his heritage,he appreciates his African roots,he spots a neat Afro ,he has dark skin and strong arms that almost burst out of his shirt,filled with veins that tell stories of struggle and triumph...his hair gleams and glistens as the suns light illuminate the space around table 10 and table 12.He stares vacantly into space like he is thinking about nothing in particular but he doesn't come across as idle.he looks like he is supposed to be here at this particular cafe,at this particular time,on table twelve,sipping a cappuccino with two teaspoons of sugar...
He takes off his Ankara bow tie and I'm watching him intently from the counter as i dry some silverware and glassware.He loosens the top button of his crisp white shirt which is folded artfully on the arms.he sips his coffee which by now should be either cold or finished. He takes off a fountain pen from his Harris Tweed coat which he had hanged on the chair facing him,as if to say he didn't need any company.Those oleo who insist on sharing tables with you when there are obviously other tables in the cafe.he doesn't want to be distracted.
Who still owns a fountain pen at this day and age?who still inks pens and scribbles things,punching calculators...he should be typing off a mini laptop .
I straighten my hair and apron and go over to fill his cup since he looks like he needs more caffeine in his system.
He looks engrossed and buried in what he is doing... I cant help but peep at his book and i see a lot of numbers and tables,tables that remind me of balance sheets,profit and loss ,income statements and pro forma jargon that the years have erased off my memory.he closes the book when he notices I'm prying,he looks at me and smiles as i try pretend that i was looking somewhere else. He has these piercing eyes that make me immobile for a second or two.He is still smiling,revealing a perfect set of white teeth.
I almost smile back,but the way he reverts back to his business and his face is now serious and looking down to his calculator and whatever else.
I almost knocked him on the head,i almost said "dude! I was totally checking u out...i even sugared your coffee.is it because I'm just a waitress in this artsy coffee shop?is it because you are some business mogul or something!!" I shook my head,sighed and went to the couple in table 7 to take their order.(20/12/2012)