Aroma
They are about to shuffle me out of here so my typing must be fleet. I haven’t decided what to write, so I’ll write what I see.
Two men with wool worker caps and plaid shirts cause each other to roll their eyes, snicker and periodically throw their heads back in laughter. They look like they just got back from central casting for 1940’s cub reporter. They are enjoying each other’s synergy in a decidedly platonic way, each reluctant to recognize just how scrumptious they find their connection.
Behind them converses a serious group of four people. A guy dressed like a cat burglar complete with knit cap and black leather gloves holding court as the other three contemplate him as if Ghandi was his unenlightened disciple.
To my right, under the copper foyer a boy-man attempts to impress his date with too much of himself and won’t understand why she moves on in a few weeks.
Then there’s the trio who keep talking about the industry and not a one of them has stopped smiling my entire time.
Lastly there’s the fellow (in nearly every Los Angeles coffee house) with the macbook writing on Finaldraft what is obviously the Great American Screenplay. Laughing at his own jokes and occasionally clapping his hands as if to show that what Shakespeare lacked was enthusiasm. This guy is writing on Sunday night because tomorrow he gets up early for what is probably a sales meeting. Oh wait. That last guy is me.
I guess I fit right in.