Pepper-haired man sits by the window, writing in his notebook. He sweeps off a few words and fondles his chin, peering out across the coffee space, his writing tucked up close to him, his legs crossed, his feet in sandals. He pushes his glasses further up on his nose.
A middle-aged woman smiles as she reads her newspaper. It's not an expression she's used to. Her well-worn but beautiful face has grimace lines, an eternal long-suffering look. Her yellow-coloured sunglasses and her keys lie discarded on the table.
I think the man is watching her. He has started a new page. His eyes wander across the coffee space. She is blissfully unaware.
And no one talks. At the counter, the baristas cry: coffee, coffee, coffee.
License plate spotted yesterday while driving (when I wished I had my digital camera handy): NCC1701F.
The car was a deep purple Pontiac Grand AM, with rear spoiler.
I guess when you can afford such a vehicle, you're entitled to shout "I'm a geek! Hear me roar!" at the world.
I tried to flash him a long-live-and-prosper hand signal to show my kinship, but he just drove away, warp factor 70.