How come they can't just shut up?
I'm sitting here listening to their never-ending, ongoing debate about nothing. Not even interesting nothing. Nothing with subheadings.
I came here for a coffee.
That was the whole plan. Sit outside. Open the notebook. Possibly write something. Possibly just sit there looking like someone who writes something. A perfectly respectable way to spend twenty minutes.
Then the table behind me discovered a subject.
I couldn't tell you what it was. They've changed it four times without finishing the first one.
“That's not what I'm saying.”
Well, that makes two of us who don't know what you're saying.
Someone leans forward. This is bad. Leaning forward means there's more.
“No, but you have to understand...”
Apparently I do. Apparently everyone within six tables has been enrolled.
I look at my coffee. My coffee looks back. Neither of us has anything to add.
There was a point here once
I think someone said a film was overrated. We are now discussing whether people are allowed to have opinions, which is a bold question from a table currently producing so many.
Every sentence begins before the previous one ends. Nobody is listening closely enough to be persuaded, but everybody is speaking with the urgency of someone trying to land a plane.
A hand goes up. A cup goes down. Somebody laughs in that particular way that means they found nothing funny.
“I'm just being honest.”
Of course you are. Nobody has ever announced that they're about to be exhausting.
I could move. There are other tables.
But I've got a good seat, and there's a patch of sun on this one. I refuse to surrender a patch of sun over a film none of them seems to have enjoyed.
I have prepared a statement
In my head, I turn around.
I deliver something brief and devastating. Not rude, exactly. More the sort of sentence people remember on the way home and then pretend they didn't hear properly.
There is silence. Someone apologises. A waiter nods with quiet respect.
Obviously none of this happens.
What actually happens is I take a sip and discover I've let my coffee go lukewarm while mentally directing a scene in which I am the most impressive person at a café.
So that's embarrassing.
They're having a pointless argument out loud. I'm having one privately, with better dialogue and a much less realistic ending.
Maybe I don't need to contribute.
Never better, since you asked
The hands go back into the hoodie pocket.
On the front: NEVER BETTER. Underneath, a bearded face that looks like it has heard quite enough already. For once, the clothing is handling the conversation accurately.
I'm not suddenly delighted. I haven't developed a spiritual appreciation for the rich variety of human expression. Someone behind me has just said “at the end of the day” for the third time, and I would very much like us to arrive there.
But I don't turn around.
I open the notebook.
There's something oddly satisfying about deciding not to join in. Not because I've risen above it. My thoughts about these people remain deeply uncharitable. But their conversation can stay at their table, even if the volume has other ambitions.
I write one sentence. Cross it out. Write another.
For a few minutes, I stop keeping score of what they're saying.
Then I notice I haven't been listening.
Oh. There it is.
A hoodie for staying out of it
That's the mood behind the NEVER BETTER oversized unisex washed hoodie. You still notice the nonsense. You just don't have to give it the rest of your morning.
Heavyweight 440 g/m² combed cotton. An oversized fit, drop shoulders, and a washed finish. A kangaroo pocket for the hands that do not need to be making a point right now.
At Worn In Public, this is our version of dressing for the occasion. The occasion being: I have left the house, and other people are here.
If you have a friend who can communicate an entire complaint with one look across a café table, this might be their hoodie. If you're already thinking of the friend, send them the link. No supporting argument required.
Behind me, someone says, “Anyway, we're basically saying the same thing.”
Forty minutes.
Forty minutes to agree.
I close the notebook and order another coffee.
Never better.
0 comentarios