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.