Something I’ve always wanted to do is chronicle the people I see on the street or at coffee shops and tell m version of what their stories might be.
Just outside the door of the coffee shop is an older couple. They are playing Scrabble. She has her pieces laid out on the little easel and has her hand on her chin, trying to form works with the scatter of tiles in front of her. She picks up a small dictionary as the man scratches his head. He is balding, with long, scraggly hair. they both wear glasses. He stares at the board, then at her, waiting.
“Phillip, let’s go do something,” Donna said as she folded the day’s laundry.
It was a warm day outside, warmer than it had ever been in April. She blamed and was grateful for global warming as she looked out the window.
“We just went out,” Phillip called from the couch. He was reading a well-loved copy of Ishmael.
“To the store. That is not out.”
Their home was a well lived small bungalow they had thankfully bought years before. It was worth five times what they paid for it, even though it desperately needed some repairs Phillip had been “getting to” for the past five years. There was no set style, only comfort. the children had beaten the life out of the furniture and they could not bear to part with the pieces of cloth, foam and wood after the kids had moved out and were having families of their own. They had memories stored in the cushions next to the dust and grime.
Donna had stopped folding and was giving Phillip a look of tender annoyance.
Phillip sighed. He did want a cup of coffee.
“Let’s go into San Luis and grab some coffee,” he said with a hint of resignation.
He pronounced it San Lewis, not San Lou-eese as it was supposed to be pronounced. He had lived in the area too long.
“We can play Scrabble, and maybe you’ll beat me this time.”
So, should I keep doing this? Was it any good?