Diary Entry (3.24.11)

Sometimes I’m so inspired to write, I can’t think of anything to write at all. You would think, wouldn’t you, that sitting in some café—Au Bon Pain, specifically—sipping (the now empty) iced coffee with one sugar and soy milk, accompanied by a powdered chocolat croissantwould be enough. There’s even a lovely selection of Starbucks-esque, or “Easy Listening” as dubbed by iTunes, songs playing in the background: Michael Bublé, pre-mainstream radio.

(The croissant looked much prettier than it tasted. I was slightly disappointed.)

I claim the back corners, always. I’d mark it with my pheromones if it wasn’t so animalistic and socially awkward. Perhaps a whiff of my signature scent, Versace Bright Crystal, would have been sufficient, but you never know these days—my school bag (and brown paper bag holding the offending croissant) are my placeholder. The back corner, the one against the rain-speckled windows, is my space for the whatever hour or so I have remaining before the walk to my next class.

I decide I like walking.

I also like people-watching. From the back corner—my back corner—of the café. Here is where my observations, à la Harriet the Spy (sans the gossip) go unnoticed. I’m just another girl in a coffee shop, inconspicuous in the crowd of coffee and pastry lovers (except this one time when casting agents from Abercrombie & Fitch approached me with a modeling offer, hellooo, ego boost!). I’m but a girl in ABP writing, checking something on her Macbook incessantly, nibbling on fancy French carbs that look better than they taste (I’m all about aesthetics, but looks can be—and are—deceiving). Little do they know I’m glancing through my fringe, my mascara-laced lashes, up from sips of coffee, over the top of my laptop, watching. LIstening. Writing. Repeat.

But then I see the people watching me back. Inquisitive boys, looking. Peeking, taking lances. A few years ago I would have been embarrassed to even meet eyes. Today, though, I hold the gaze, smiling coyly from the left side of my mouth. Most look away, flushed. Few approach my little corner. I’ve been told I’m intimidating by strangers and friends alike—it’s just the set up of notebooks, large coffees, and my open laptop that look like a barricade. Brownie points in the little black book for the brave soldiers who dare to approach.

Yes, they can have my number.

.   .   .

Read Part II of my diary.

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