i spent an hour at the coffeeshop before work, reading a new book and sipping at toohot chai. the browneyed man who hit on me at the creamer counter was so clich� i almost laughed out loud - but contained myself enough to tell him that yes, i do, and wouldn't he have a nice day? out in the sunlight, i was interrupted three chapters in by a man whose goatee couldn't quite hide his overearnest face, and who read me a terribly beautiful poem for fifty cents.

meanwhile, the cold metal bench seeped through my skirt to counteract the overflowing sun on my aching legs, the chai was sweet and soothing, and i discovered that while ee cummings writes a remarkably coherent and engaging novel, it would be nice if i knew french.