Episodes in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop

At the same time we ought to understand also that it is impossible for human nature not to be always feeling the passion of love for something. Everyone who has reached the age that they call puberty loves something, either less rightly when he loves what he should not, or rightly and with profit when he loves what he should love. --Origen

As often as not, it seems to be assumed that man has his being independently of his passions. I affirm, on the other hand, that we must never imagine existence execept in terms of these passions. --Bataille




After a while, after I had filled some time at Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop, I became friendly with one of the semi-hippy people that worked there. And, yes, the person was a female. Smooth.

I would order a hot drink during the day, and ask her how she was doing. You know, I would talk to her about ‘green’ things, or why the president was what she called a douche bag, or even about text and smoke (kind of). She was shorter, a bit petite. She usually wore her hair in different ways—cute and variable (more signs of her semi-hippy status). Her clothes were second hand but still attractive. She was younger too. She was young—you know what I mean—young (not young enough to get me in trouble, stupid). Her smile was endearing and it always said something about her—something mostly pure, something consciously naïve, and something curious.
I sauntered to the Cofee Shop everyday with my words and texts. I'd sit and read. She was a pleasant distraction from all of that. At times I had to remind myself to read rather than to think about her, or to think of reasons to speak to her. The Old Man told me to grow some man muscles and ask her out. I told him to take his pills so that his man muscles might work again. This kind of talk happened almost every day.
Regardless, over time I got more brave. She’d give me my cup of hot liquid and I would wink and say something like, “Thank you beautiful.” Smooth.

She’d smile and pretend like it wasn’t a big deal. She'd walk away and flip her hair, or try not to look at me.
Then she began coming into the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop to talk to me even when she wasn’t required to serve drinks. She would come and bother me, talk to me about texts, or ‘things that matter’. She always had an opinon on a mix of things, from the best kind of coffee, or the conservative politics of the new Italian leader, or chickens.
“Have you seen how they treat the chickens?”
“What?” I would say, looking up from my text, over my glasses.
As she put her hot drink on the table, she would continue: “I saw this documentary last night about how they treat chickens. These poor animals are raised in cages with no freedom. It is completely inhumane what is done to them.”
“Huh,” I would say, stroking my chin stubble. “That is awful.”
“Did you know that it takes like 100 acres of land to provide food for a meat-eater, but only like 3 for a vegetarian?”
“Really? Goodness.”
“I am so glad I am a vegetarian. I couldn't live with myself if I knew I was contributing to such a thing. I am only going to eat free range eggs from now on too. You know, the kind where the chickens grow up in a free environment, not in cages.”
“You are right, that is horrible. I can see why you are upset. ”
“Oh, well. We are going to eat everything in this world and then it will be over.”
“Well, at that point we will be the winners—right? We win. That is why I still eat meat—I want to help contribute anyway I can. I won't hold it against you that you aren't contributing much.”
“Hilarious. You are so funny. Really.”
“Bye, gorgeous.”
With that, she would walk away with a frustrated look, but a bouncy step. Strange.

These kinds of interactions continued for a while. I was good at being and playing interested. I was good at caring, you could say. She thought so too. Smooth.

I watched her interact with people. She didn't go out of her way to be friendly—she didn't try too hard. But, nonetheless people were drawn to her. People seemed disarmed almost instantly by her humble smile and open way. It was like they knew she was thankful for their existence without having to say so. I liked how kind she was without being annoying . . .
A couple of times a week, I would watch her talk with the Old Man.
“Hey, darling. Fill'er up.”
“No problem, honey, how are you today?”
“Oh, you know—old, gray, but still kickin.”
“Still handsome too,” she'd urge him on with a sly smile.
“Well, thank you. Makes my day when you say things like that.”
“Because you like having cute, young women admire you?”
“No. Makes me feel good knowing young people still have some sense of taste—you can still spot a handsome devil like me. All is not lost.”
“Whatever, old man.” She'd say with a smile as he turned to find a seat.
Somehow, he didn't seem creepy or lecherous to her. He had grandfatherly qualities coupled with charm and confidence.
And, for some reason, I enjoyed watching her give time to him and to others.