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I’m always sensitive to sound, some days more than others.

Sitting in my new favorite café, I pause for a moment to hear:

– the droning fridge, a terrible bane of all cafés that sell cold drinks and eats; somebody please design something less pathetic and noisy. Please.

– the espresso steamer; acceptable.

– the banging clanging of the girl bussing cups and plates; she doesn’t want to be here, but, money. . .

– Paul Simon singing “50 years . . .”

– five or six conversations; some serious, some not, all battling to be heard over all of the above . . . thus none are private

– bathroom doors opening and occasionally slamming

– a bag of espresso roast beans being emptied into a grinder

– a paper bag with eager fingers exploring and picking apart a muffin

– flipflops? It’s mild on the island; mix of sun and cloud with fog dissipating this afternoon

– a gent shakes a sugar packet

– I don’t know this song

– a spoon falls; the card reader beeps impatiently asking forever if the customer wants a receipt . . .

The place is alive, yet a Sunday kind of calm. I will momentarily plug in my earbuds and ingest some more Thoreau, and a crossword or two.

There are no ordinary moments.