Creeping

I don't mean to look, and for the past few minutes I've been trying to keep my eyes on this screen and nothing else. But I have to look. My gaze is somehow magnetized to this pole, and it's unfortunate that someone's noticed.

I snagged a good seat at a busy cafe in Davis and I haven't moved for several hours. I had worked productively for several of those several hours but the weariness of research had combined with my hyperactivity from three cups of caffeine. Not wanting to lose this prime seat, I resorted to people-watching as a sort of release. It's not just sitting here judging people. Sometimes, I can find an ethereal connection with an unaware stranger, some memory from my past or future. An asian man, looking for the bathroom key. How many times have I been him, and how many more until I'm his age? Some arabic students, friends who clamor and discuss this or that with fluid aspirations. Without the arabic, I've been them before, at a Starbucks in Cleveland, at Choco Latte, with Fred, with Prisca.

But as it goes, the inevitable cute girl had to take the nearest seat to the table directly across me. She was small, asian, probably a church-goer if one could make such a distinction. Nothing about her was particularly alluring, but her movements held a kind of self-consciousness that certain minorities have. She probably sees it as a weakness to overcome, but I like it. That table became base for my eyes, a place from where I dare not stray, lest I be captured or tagged. She's still sitting there, her profile facing towards a middle-aged woman on a computer, who is facing me. People at that table keep moving, directing my attention to them and to then her. When a guy next to the computer woman stood up, I quickly glanced at him and automatically at cute girl, and I felt two immediate eyes look up in my direction. The fastidious computer woman caught me creeping, and my reaction plead my guilt; I quickly affixed my eyes to my screen.

I want to take a break from all this, the watching, the watched, but my only other option is impossible. I brought along a book in case I get bored, a suggestion from my brother. Unfortunately, the title "Lolita" is imprinted bold on the cover, along with a pair of giant nymphet lips. For someone accused of creeping, busting out the most historically creepy book would further confirm the accusation. This especially because I think computer woman still has her eye on me.

So instead I blog. And not even in a blog, but in TextEdit, in tiny font in case someone's trying to look on. Do I hate myself? No, not at all. In fact, I'm priding myself on a recent mix I made. I got 60/60 on my last math exam. I am wearing my cowboy shirt.

I have many positive qualities that outweigh my creepiness in this moment, which, to my conscience, is important in getting a good night's rest tonight. And if I don't, God, let it be the three cups of caffeine.