There’s a pile of newspapers on the table here in the coffee shop. I’m looking at them because this happens to be my table. It’s a pretty big table, seating six, except that my suitcase takes up one seat, and the piles of newspapers two.
True, there are two piles. There’s one with the newspapers that Wayne, the owner of this wonderful chain, has made available for his guests. And then there’s another one that has two or three used newspapers. As in papers somebody has read, not papers that a dog has used. It’s not an official Wayne’s pile.
Just as I wrote about the newspapers, somebody left a tray with a coffee cup and two plates next to me. Well, it’s a pretty big table and all I need is this small space for my laptop and another 35 centimeters for me to operate my mouse on. There’s space, even now that a guy with a “Bad Hair Day” hat on sat down and pushed the used newspapers to his right, my left, so that they’re now right in front of me, behind my laptop.
It is interesting to see how everybody wants to have his own newspaper. Or, in this case, her own paper. A lady just came up to the table, went through the pile of newspapers to be read and pulled out the one that was in the middle of the stack. Not the one on top, but not the one on the bottom, either.
There’s nothing wrong with the top paper. As far as I can tell, it hasn’t even been opened, it’s just lying there, with all departments in tact. They’re all the same, except that they’re not. We want just the one that we want!
Mr. BHD – who’s also got a bad case of the flu – just grabbed a paper, too. Not the one on top. Three down.
Now another man came for a newspaper. His choice? The fourth from the top.
It seems to be lonely at the top.