Two baristas were busily wiping the surfaces and tuning up sundry machines.
My order, a "black eye" (large coffee with two shots of espresso), was ready. "Good morning," I said, "Thank you."
The parking lot was deserted except for my 17-year-old Camry. As I departed, another customer arrived. He seemed to be in a hurry. Golfer? Fisherman? Work? The old reasons for rushing about haven't applied for nearly a year.
When it's quiet, dark, and lonely, being with strangers is better than just ourselves.
|Edward Hopper, Nighthawks (1942), Art Institute of Chicago|