People-watching
Oct. 2nd, 2002 08:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
resonantThere's a young man who buses tables at a local restaurant who'd make a lovely grown-up Ron Weasley.
He's very tall and thin. His hair is long and quite red. His nose is beaky. It's a very attractive look, at least for those of us who had crushes on Ursula LeGuin's Sparrowhawk at a formative age.
He has that restaurant-worker way of moving, as though he's not occupying space in quite the same way as the rest of us; a crowd that would completely defeat me somehow provides a path through which he can take his six-foot-six self, one tray loaded with dirty dishes, and two pots of hot coffee.
I was watching him over my pancakes this morning, wondering if being in the younger half of a large, loud family would teach you to move like that.
Later today, I spent a little time writing smut in the self-help section of Barnes & Noble. (Most of my stories get written in Barnes & Noble, though I really prefer the chair in the business section, which has a big table to put your feet on.)
A woman a couple of aisles over began having a loud, tearful argument with her significant other via cell phone. I couldn't see her, but I could hear her.
"Fine," she said. "If you want to play games like it's you and Susan, go ahead and play games. Control-fucking-freak."
There was a pause. "No, I don't, I really don't, that's why I'm sitting here crying in a bookstore."
Another pause. "I'm buying 'The Relationship Rescue Manual,' and in two weeks, you and I are going to have to make some decisions. No, don't -- I'm just saying. I'm just saying."
I caught a glimpse of her as she walked by, a tall pretty blonde about my age carrying a big paperback book. I can't help thinking that by the time you're having fights via cell phone, you're pretty much beyond the help of the Relationship Rescue Manual.
He's very tall and thin. His hair is long and quite red. His nose is beaky. It's a very attractive look, at least for those of us who had crushes on Ursula LeGuin's Sparrowhawk at a formative age.
He has that restaurant-worker way of moving, as though he's not occupying space in quite the same way as the rest of us; a crowd that would completely defeat me somehow provides a path through which he can take his six-foot-six self, one tray loaded with dirty dishes, and two pots of hot coffee.
I was watching him over my pancakes this morning, wondering if being in the younger half of a large, loud family would teach you to move like that.
Later today, I spent a little time writing smut in the self-help section of Barnes & Noble. (Most of my stories get written in Barnes & Noble, though I really prefer the chair in the business section, which has a big table to put your feet on.)
A woman a couple of aisles over began having a loud, tearful argument with her significant other via cell phone. I couldn't see her, but I could hear her.
"Fine," she said. "If you want to play games like it's you and Susan, go ahead and play games. Control-fucking-freak."
There was a pause. "No, I don't, I really don't, that's why I'm sitting here crying in a bookstore."
Another pause. "I'm buying 'The Relationship Rescue Manual,' and in two weeks, you and I are going to have to make some decisions. No, don't -- I'm just saying. I'm just saying."
I caught a glimpse of her as she walked by, a tall pretty blonde about my age carrying a big paperback book. I can't help thinking that by the time you're having fights via cell phone, you're pretty much beyond the help of the Relationship Rescue Manual.