He orders a Kyoto cold brew because, served as it is in a snifter, he thought it was a cocktail of some sort.
……….
Two young people are sitting across from each other, he notices, conversing in strained registers. The guy has on an Interpol T-shirt and wears a barcode tattoo on his left forearm. The woman is carefully tanned and obviously out of his league. She is drinking something from a straw. She tells him about chiropractic school and drug addiction. The guy doesn’t say much. The woman continues to tell him about how intellectuals often suffer from some sort of spinal disorder because they’re hunched over “all the fucking time.” She seems nervous; it’s probably their first date, or whatever. The guy doesn’t seem like much of a swearer–despite his Interpol T-shirt and tattoo.
……….
How did these two people find each other, he wonders from the other side of his Kyoto cold brew. They’re togetherness is off-putting, he decides. Nevertheless, it’s probably interesting–whatever happened to bring them together. But of course, it is totally not happening. Silence envelops the pair.
She looks across the room and her eyes settle on a man drinking a Kyoto cold brew. She smiles.
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