Since Curry and I don't have the internet, I spend a lot of time at our local Borders, with my trusty laptop, and usually a big pile of magazines for when the network is slow. I have to tell you, the people who come to Borders are hilarious. A cross-section of midddle-class South-eastern Pennsylvanians.
For example, there was the creepy man with the goatee who was reading Spiderman comics. He looked like he could be intelligent--but there he sat with a big cookie, and a huge stack of comic books. He was devouring them. And devouring every pretty girl that walked by with his eyes.
Today there is a balding man with jeans three inches too short, greyed athletic socks, and mocasins. He is reading Dickens. But not a nice edition--one of those bargain copies with the bad design. He is constantly wiping his nose, and making short comments to the old man sitting next to him.
There is a little old lady, too, with a pink baseball cap. She sat all alone for the longest time, sipping her coffee. But then, a 16 year old boy sat down, and starting talking in a loud voice about what he was reading. She didn't seem too interested--but they went out together.
Over in the far corner there is a woman in her 50s with a huge pair of glasses. Her hair is in a top-knot. I would not want to mess with her...
Then there is the girl on the back wall, with a dirty lap-top that still has a repair sticker on it (bright green, no less). Her hair is pulled up, but messily, with one pin. And her feet are propped up on the chair opposite her, as usual. As usual...because it's me. What does all that say about me? Or about these people with me at this quiet Borders, during a thunderstorm? I am not sure at all.