I stopped at the grocery store after coffee tonight, 11PM. When I left to return to my car, it had begun to rain. It's raining now, starting and stopping, fits of summer rain. What could be finer?

Answer this: Why does the grocery store block entrance to the aisles late at night, forcing shoppers to walk through the register aisle and around? What could explain this silliness? I have never been able to think through this mystery to any satisfying explanation, so every time face the situation I find myself utterly exasperated by it. Why!?

As I walked down the aisle looking for orange juice concentrate, I caught sight of myself in the reflection of the frozen foods freezer glass doors. I liked what I saw.

Java's tonight ... I overheard that it's not Java Joe's, but Java's. Ok. I sat at an outside table with two chairs before someone came pleading for the extra. At the table in front of me was Matt, talking with a boy of perhaps 18, a handsome boy. Matt likes the boys. I studied; I listened to the people around me, mostly kids, students. They're almost uniformly boring. Although I couldn't hear the conversation, I'm certain Matt's conversation with the boy was boring as well. I heard the owner explaining to someone that yes, they sell coffee and drinks, but mostly it's a place where people hang out. And it's true. That's what it is. And it's good.

The owner employs some goon to stand outside the entrance and keep order, or at least that's what I surmise. Mostly he engages customers and those passing by in unwanted and intractable conversation--ravings and monologs which need so little encouragement to sustain themselves. I imagine him loaded with topics, as if a tired juke box sitting in the corner waiting to be called into renewed service. Any interaction with him seems fraught with danger, as any innocent, passing remark may unwittingly queue up by a dormant topic, which once launched, cannot be recalled. He'll proceed through his litnany of points, repeating generously. All one can do is turn with regular frequency away from the others in your party and nod knowingly, in total agreement. "Yep, I know what you mean." Ocassionally he'll bark across the street some profanities to a panhandler, hushing the crowd. One wonders if the medicine the owner means to dispense with his goon is worse than the disease.

I didn't see or hear much of anything that intrigued me. Well, bodies, the slim bodies of young men never fail to elicit desire. But I kept remembering the impression I had earlier today while I was sitting outside of another coffee shop. I was there to study, and a good thing it was, because there was also nothing there of interest. While looking around as I do, for things of interest, my eyes locked on the red brick of the front facade, and the canopy stretched over the row of tables beneath it. Perhaps it was feeling of authenticity that sometimes comes from mortar and bricks, or the sun cast just right between the walls of this and the adjacent building as the wind moved the empty chairs beside me, but it felt for an instance like Paris, distant and exotic Paris. And that was not boring.

I could sit there on the sidewalk, rocking my chair on its rear legs as I cradle a book, reach for another sip of warm coffee, and imagine that just around the corner is the bustle of a busy St. Germaine cafe. There I might order a caraffe of wine, open my book again, but without conviction, and watch the crowd as I ease into the summer evening with the pleasant drunkenness that will soon carry me home and into early sleep.