Turns out.. it isn't just another ramble

So. I've not been able to think of any fictional stuff to write about. Most everything I write these days are diary entries or something in the same vein. Am sitting in this cafe I frequent and trying to come up with something to write about. Decided I'll just ramble till that happens.

Its a rainy day and  the cafe is full. Not necessarily due to rains. It hardly a rain anyway - just a miserly drizzle. The people around me -

A - an elderly man, lean, not mean, getting ready to dig into his BLT (?).. With a MacAir in front of him. Seems to be the laptop of choice around here. All the laptops I see around are mac. Damn.

B, C - two bubbly, cheerful girls. Early twenties? Tucking into those coffees. Plural per. C has a lot of jewelry on. Gold colored.

D - old, portly (I'm being biased by my own size) man ruminating in the magazines with a sailors cap on. Wonder how people select what cap they feel "fits" them.

E - solo traveler. Punching away industriously at her laptop. Young and enthusiastic worker ant.

lots more others around - a few who hardly lift their gaze from the screens in front of them. In their own heads literally - with the music playing in their earphones. (Aside: I found that article about the apparent source of music really fascinating). Busy worker bee-ing away.

I find my view very fascinating - the drizzle visible offset by bottlebrush trees on full bloom. With the two chefs from "m" discreetly working away. Filling lunch orders. A couple of wet benches waiting soggily for people to occupy them. They're sadly abandoned today. Voices buzzing through my noise isolating headphones, undeterred.

What could be the story encompassing all this? I just saw this movie the other week about how most stories are real life incidents narrated to authors who then personalize them but essentially not completely fiction. Maybe that can be how to go about this "writing" business. Hmmm. Now there’s a thought.

A woman, FiFie, just walked in. Toting a canvas bag, in a striped T-shirt hitting mid thigh. Dirty blond hair pulled off her face. Glancing around she walks up to the guy ringing up orders. Looks around for a list of beverages on offer. Finds it and decides on her drink. Gets billed and finds a chair for herself. Just another person finding her way out of the now gusty rains. The cafe absorbs her into its fold.

The stairs leading up to the WC are a well trod path today. I've always wondered why the rains have that effect. The BLT of the guy next to me is a thing of the past now. Some crumbs they only evidence that it ever existed. Funny how that is. Some things are so inconsequential, but if you look at how it got to be what it was, it is anything but.

FiFie has settled into her spot, canvas tote slung down on the leatherette window seat she is now occupying. Or not. I can see her asking Worker Ant if she would look out for her stuff while she trudges up the stairs herself to avail of the relief her bowels were demanding. Worker Ant pops an ear-bud out, acquiesces and returns back to her uncharacteristically focused path for the day. Cafe courtesies.

The table does its whirring thing again. Like a cellphone ringing on it somewhere, only it’s stronger than a mere cellphone vibrate. The mysterious workings of the floor buzzing up from the underworld through the table.

I look down at the clock and see 1:23pm. I smile – coincidences are fun. B & C are long gone. Their table taken over by G, H and I. School kids collaborating on assignments. FiFie is back and browsing her phone. Definitely not in a hurry to get on with work. Her tote lolling next to her. I’ve always wondered what women have in their bags. I mean, being one, I’m supposed to know? But no matter what I do I can't seem to justify carrying a tote around unless I have my laptop with me. Which she didn’t.

A stream of new comers file in and queue up to place their orders. Cafes are the terminals of people not flying anywhere. They check in, buy their drink. Stay around till their time is up or take off to catch up with that appointment. There is always a steady stream of ingress egress.

The rains have stopped but I guess Worker Ant has consumed enough liquids to warrant a visit to the wc. FiFie returns the favor for her. Worker Ant squeezes by the adjoining table and clomps off up the stairs. Her boots beating an impressive rhythm to accompany her hasty flight up. The two chefs are still working away in the window. Lunch crowd has tapered off but not stopped yet.

FiFie is ready to leave but Worker Ant is not back yet. She shrugs, folds up her laptop, tugs it into her bag and walks out. Finally finding her purpose.

Just another day at a coffee shop.