321 4 0
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The barista went about grabbing a mug, pouring the coffee, twisting the handle with a practiced, cavalier confidence that bespoke countless previous repetitions of the same act (and, doubtless, many more to come).
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4800
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The laptop-typing sound — the gal with the satchel of (apparently) textbooks, again — cut out, in one of those ways that made you notice it, only once it had stopped, entirely. All of a sudden, the particular “white noise” of it was gone.
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3300
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He was probably actually thinking something much, much lamer than that — more Beavis & Butt-Head than Theodore Dreiser — but she let herself imagine it that way. Easier to dismiss if it was SWEETLY stupid.
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4700
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The shift in attention was caught as a prime opportunity for the Ever-Alert, Graceful-as-a-Doe barista, who slapped her exhortation to “go outside with that!” to him with the semi-perfect timing of a wing in hockey slapping the puck into the net.
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3600
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“Watcha readin'?” he leered, typing himself, by his brazenness of tone, as being obviously not someone who was truly “interested” in the answer. ¶ “Huh?” he followed up, in case she didn't “get it.”
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49210
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Head-Scratcher looked at the cap he was now holding in his hand, changing its perspective from an incidentally-held object to something more exalted, like a scepter or a chalice or Yorick's fucking skull, or some shit. “It's actually a long story . . . ”
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