Friday, February 20, 2009

Still More

I was in a cafe / art gallery.  Very light, lots of white; large square columns going up about two stories; booth seating with light wooden table tops.  

I ordered salmon and chips.  There were a bunch of Wordos there, so I think it was after a Tuesday critique.  My order got lost, but I finally realized the fish that the cashier was trying to was mine and went with the orphaned plate of fries.

I walked over to a table.  I had a paper number in a kind of stand (in waking life I don't know why, as I already had my food).  I lit the number over a conveniently (and inexplicable) candle flame, and discovered the number wasn't paper, but a kind of plastic.  I blew it out.  I placed the charred number on my table and watched the smoke rise and make interesting patterns.  The proprietess, a thirty-something woman in blue jeans with brunette hair pulled back into a long ponytail, commented that I was being strange.  I said I liked to watch the play of rising strands of smoke.  

Other Wordos appeared, and we tried to cram eight people into a booth for six.  I had to stash  my "man purse" / shoulderbag under the seat.
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