For you dear reader, the second installment of my little series todo about the many coffee houses of Rochester, NY.
Another coffee shop in a different part of the city. It’s named after a place on the other side of this nation and is situated on a ritzy commercial part of Park Avenue in the always wondrous Rochester, NY.
It attracts the do wells and young professionals at nearly one on a Monday afternoon. The sun shines bright and vibrant overhead casting serenity and joy for anyone who wants some.
Mostly this coffee shop offers a glimpse of those who would walk by. Those once weary of the overcast, dreary shadows now flood the streets due to a spot of sun light. Tight spandex and nylon. Expensive earphones and expensive sport shoes created by American scientists and designers, assembled by a small army of nameless dirty people in some place far far away. They jig and amble and pop down the sidewalk getting some much needed blood to those nearly in shape limbs.
Then you have the people with their pups, both seem happy with the extra vit. D.
And the rest, those just passing thru this little intersection of Park & Somerton. They’re the ones who look at me with a slight bit of judgement or disgust exposed about their faces like an elected officials scandal. It’s fun to nod and watch nothing happen. It’s fun to sit outside in this city surrounded by people yet all alone.
There’s some new graffiti on the walls, some stencil but it’s bad. If only because its creator is the only one who could tell you what it is. I think maybe a storm trooper drawn free hand and from memory, but I can’t be sure so I’m slightly annoyed by it. This city is very hit or miss with its graffiti but I think it’s like that wherever you go. I search the streets for other visions…
Ah the oddity of the obese woman in a relationship with the skinny man! I love those couples. They tell the world to fuck off just by holding hands. It’s like a tooth pick Aladdin and a marshmallow Jasmine only no wishes had to be granted nor did an entire pretend kingdom nearly crumble at the hands of a madman so that their love could see reality.
The girl on her white iPhone in front of me stuffed into an outfit one size too small for her and balancing on purple pumps that look one size too big. She teeters on the corner next to the stop sign and completely ignores the attractive girl in her twenties who walks by dressed like a pigeon lady from central park. And now they’re both gone.
That’s the nature of this place. Everyone passes thru and they don’t leave a trace. Like those two out of shape middle aged people carrying the fast food bag or the business man carrying his bag from the comic book store down the street. These people don’t stick in our minds. They typically vanish as soon as they’re out of site. That’s a redundant statement and this narrative has run its course.
Until next time dear readers. Perhaps I’ll sit myself at a local Starbucks & wax poetic horror at the stereotypical sights which befall me. That’ll be the day.