White hair. Band-Aids covering lesions on forearms. Pre-cancerous, probably. JVC headphones. Watching cello lessons on YouTube from laptop. Scribbling notes.
I’ve three work emails open. Cold coffee. Exhausted.
Look left—pink-haired woman glances at me. Away. Then back at me.
Mohawk man—Pink’s beau?—follows her glance. Registers me. Glares.
You’re the cog of a disastrous quadrangle, I think.
Mohawk reads my mind, seemingly. Stands.
Haven’t stopped smiling. Smittenness contagious.
Look right—old man remains preoccupied. Scribbling furiously. Lifelong student.
Mohawk grabs my shoulder with sizable paw. Pink gasps.
Jiu-jitsu training > reason.