So I’m sitting in a cafe, getting my mocha fix after a hard day of sitting at the mechanic’s for most of the day, and I am trying to organize my thoughts and kill time until I can park easily in my neighborhood after the street sweepers have swept through. Or actually street sweeper, I only ever see one. Anyway, I was hot. The weather has been unseasonably warm for Los Angeles IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER! and I had been walking up and down the streets of Covina and Glendora while my car was in the shop, trying to get paperwork down done so I can get paid. Still have plenty of paperwork to do before that’s complete, but I was making an effort with what I could do. Unfortunately I had not been dressed for walking, no comfortable shoes, no hat or shade. My feet hurt now, and I was glad to not be walking on them.

Anyway, back to the cafe. It has an inordinately large male to female ratio, not that I have ever noticed, oh no, and all the tables are taken up largely by single laptop users like myself. A few collaborations going on. And most screens are displaying scripts. Oh yes, I am back in Los Angeles, not Covina where I was overhearing conversations about working in the construction trades while eating at In and Out Burger.

So I’m hot. I parked at the top of a hill, I have a blister forming on my big toe, and I am still wearing the same clothes I wore the day before when my car died in South Gate and was towed to Glendora to have the healing hands of my mechanic lay on my Bubbles (the car). So I take off my sweater and reveal the sports tank top I am wearing underneath. I have even shaved my underarms recently, thank goodness, or I would still be suffering in my sweater. I look up from reading the article on David Lynch in the LA Weekly, his not being a musician but someone who plays music, and notice not one but two different men gazing in my direction.

I am usually not feeling that confident about myself in daylight to reveal so much flesh, including my arms to the neck, but today, I am in a good mood to finally be back home from the past twelve hour adventure. And I think, maybe I should more often, if this is the reaction I get.

As I get up to bus my own table, put the newspaper back and pack my things to leave, one of the gentlemen who had been watching me came and joined my table, thanking me for vacating it, setting his own things down.


Yeah. Maybe not sexy. Maybe I was not even of interest. Maybe it was my table they had been coveting. So much for feeling sexy.

It didn’t explain the other guy. Though he was at a smaller table, so maybe he just wanted my bigger table.

The sweater went back on and I drove Bubbles home, to feed the waiting, hungry cat.

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