A Black Umbrella

I stand outside the perimeter of the café area.

Swarms of readers, browsers,

self-proclaimed writers (myself included), barely published writers,

college students, socialites, Manhattanites, and double espresso drinkers

seated on the wooden benches and leather wrapped chairs.

I pretend to be looking at the books on the stand,

but consistently peek at the seating area

from my peripheral vision

hoping for a table to free up for myself and my best friend.

I see a couple by the door begin to stir.

They take their sweet time

packing their bags.

The woman puts her books and materials in her bag

paper by paper.

But I must give them patience.

After all, they had claim to the seats first

and it is still their seats until they officially leave

the close proximity of the area, which is stated by social conduct.

When they get up, they just take their bags

and walk out the door.

I glare as I walk towards the table

that is still littered with their porcelain teacups and coasters,

stirrers, wrappers, and napkins.

Last I checked, this café was only employed with cashiers and cooks,

no busboys.

I begrudgingly pick up their mess.

I toss the disposable products in the trash.

I set the porcelain cups and coasters into the plastic bin in the sink.

I sit down in my leather seat

as my friend takes her seat across from me on the bench.

We take out our laptops and books.

We whip out our wallets.

She goes first to order her pot of peppermint tea.

I go up to try an iced latte.

When I return, I take a deep sigh,

trying to forget those inconsiderate humans.

Then I spot, over my friend’s shoulder,

leaning against the steel window frame,

a tall black umbrella.

I smile.