I’m starting to talk to more people in my neighborhood. It feels good to be able to say hi to the various characters around.
Like the old man who walks his grey poodle to the park twice each day. He’s on crutches so it’s easy to stop him to talk about the weather for a couple of moments. It’s not like he can breeze by and pretend he doesn’t see me.
Ah community.
I’m getting to know the names of the neighborhood animals.
Mustafa is a black and white cat who sits in the middle of the sidewalk.
Bruce is a tabby who plays hard to get.
Baby is orange and white and old and drooly.
And Simba is a grey poodle who takes walks with his old owner each morning and evening. If you hold your arms in a loop, Simba will jump through them. I don’t know his owner’s name.
They have birds that chirp in the middle of the night.
I stayed at a sleep clinic last night.
It was a small windowless room with a TV and an ultraviolet camera to watch me toss and turn in the dark with 19 wires hooked up to my head. I had a bit of performance anxiety to start with, but after a bit I relaxed and snored to my heart’s content.
I’m sure it was a facinating night for the technician. She’s studying to be a dentist.
Dear Mother of the Cute Kid in the Cafe,
It wasn’t so bad when you let her walk around by herself-waddling on her little fat legs. And it was actually very charming when she climbed up into my booth and stood on the opposite bench giggling and slapping the top of the cushions in triumph.
But I have to say that it was quite disconcerting when you ran over and whooshed in on the scene in a panick saying “no, no Bridget, we have to go” without actually picking her up.
It was also a bit, how shall I say this, awkward when you stayed there, wedged into the seat across from me, trying to make small talk as you continued to try to persuade your 1 and a half year old into making the journey with you across the cafe.
When you asked me what I was writing and then, when I told you, and when you said ‘oh, I thought maybe it was something interesting,’ I really must appologize that I didn’t know how to respond.
The awkward silence that followed was really my fault. And it was entirely too long -although Bridget didn’t seem to mind as the drool slipped through her three little bottom teeth and under the randomly screamed happy yelps.
So I want you to know that I’m sorry and that I’ve started practicing topics I might bring up next time after I’ve used up my ‘how old is she?’ line.
Sincerely,
Emily