The "night guy" is overly nice seeing as there's only one other person in the place, one who assuredly works here and is staying perhaps to oversee changing of the guards -? Night guy has buddy holly-ish glasses and points out the milky pieces in the brew he has just poured me, but I wave it away and tell him I'll let him know if it bothers me. He asks me what I'm working on. What am I working on? This answer is difficult, more difficult than it needs to be, and I immediately feel awkward and useless. He points me to the long, windowless back room to save me from his mopping of the main coffee-partaking area.
It's comical to be sitting in such a cabin-like setting at 5am when I haven't made the trek outside of the city and when punk music blares through the speakers. So much wood. Murals of beavers and deer and logs. Didn't I like this theme when I first patronized this place? I can't remember. I left the confines of my fluorescent-lit kitchen of debauchery (someone else's debauchery, from the 80s, no doubt) only to sit here in the overly-lit fluorescent bomb shelter of a space. Sigh.
Having a dog really fucks up my life. As if my thinking-innards weren't already spiraling down an antisocial, existential pee hole already, now whenever I am anywhere besides my home, I think, I could be cuddling with dog right now. Wet motherfucking snoopy nose action lying on my thigh, glassy, uber sweet essence of life dopey eyes staring back at me with love and a twinge of need. Granted, most people find that gaze in drugs, alcohol, and desperate sloshed suitors at bars and the like. But still.