Coffeehouse

 

I like this place. All sorts of people pass through. Sometimes even quite a few in a single afternoon. And what do I do there? The usual. Biting into a delicious cake—a brand I can't identify, by the way—I sip juice, always a different one. And since I have nothing better to do, I listen to what these various people are talking about. Aside from politics, religion, new trends, unemployment, and TV shows, there aren't any groundbreaking categories. But there are some gems. Two girls, seemingly middle schoolers, sit right by the window, near the corner of the café. They sit and passionately recount the parties they've been to recently. One partied last Saturday, and on Sunday she barely dragged herself out of bed. The other, clearly weakened and tired, had a snow marathon yesterday, heavily intoxicated. She says she lacks the energy for anything. The first one doesn't look surprised at all, examining her nails, constantly tweaking them with her teeth. She searches for something in her purse, pulls out her cell phone. I think she's checking her inbox. Tolerance. I nod my head every now and then to make sure her friend won't be offended by her spiritual absence. A plastic world of games and fun. The conversation pauses for a moment and the sacramental question is asked, "Are you even listening to me?" I smile insignificantly. The awkwardness of the whole situation bursts like a soap bubble when a third girl, as young as the other two, approaches the table. Kisses, hugs, a small order, and the conversation returns to its previous tracks. Now the two middle school girls are asking the newcomer what she does, where she studies, and how things are going, as it's been a while since they last met. The other girl firmly states that studying isn't her area, and she has a new facility that guarantees her existence. She has a new boyfriend, whose salary sometimes reaches four zeros. This guarantees a start, but only for a short time. Truth begins, intertwined with fiction – how manly he is, how gorgeous he is, what kind of car and friends he has. A veritable Helios and Apollo trapped together in one man's body. But that's where the intellectual heights end. The sound of a text message interrupts the blissful state. The girls' daydreams, and the newcomer bids a hasty farewell. She runs out of the café, her high heels clattering on the pavement. A red car pulls up right in front of her. Clearly sports. A Lamborghini or a Ferrari. I don't know anything about that. And for the ladies at the table, a time of reflection comes. Only, this time, it's understood in terms of an assessment from the perspective of their own jealousy. How strange, even crazy, she's become, thinking only about money. In the torrent of words, I only catch "slut" and "whore." A fair assessment. I almost burst into fits of laughter.

I glance at another table. Two guys, each in their 30s, are chatting passionately about business, blinking their eyes, irritated by the lingering smell of tobacco. They compete with each other in statistics and comparisons. Finally, they shake hands and exchange fake smiles, practically plastered on their faces for the occasion. They exchange suitcases, and one of them leaves the café. The man remaining sits comfortably and, with the attention of a ceremony of the highest order, reaches for his cigar. He slowly sits down, repeatedly, and, smiling mockingly, examines the section of plantation currently being burned. After a few seconds, he quickly and abruptly reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cell phone (is this a new fad?), presses a button, and says, "Hello?" He listens to what the voice on the other end has to say and simply declares, "He's taken a sip." He bursts into laughter, but this time it's hearty. "Yeah, yeah," he repeats several times. "Yeah, I know, he's a loser!" and smiles again. "Bye, see you at the office." He hangs up, pays for the meal, leaving the money by the pot of coffee. He walks briskly out with a new suitcase. I sip my juice. Orange. I think I've had it before... Such different worlds, and yet so similar in their simplicity. And their inhabitants. Identical as two dirty drops of water.