golden

There's more people than I'm used to here at the usual coffeeshop hangout, as I finish up my take-home quiz, drink ginger peach green tea, attempt to restructure the purgatorial novel along the lines of 'Dubliners,' scrawl feeble attempts at verse, and relish the solitude among texting teens, undergrads studying calculus, and a crew of middle-aged regulars.

It's nice to be somewhere where nobody knows your name but it's not unfriendly. The only person who's tried to talk to me was a bum who said I looked like a writer and tried to sell me a four-color pen in exchange for bus fare.

I keep thinking it's warmer than it is, not looking forward to going back outside because a thermal and a hoodie doesn't cut it yet. I don't want to go back out into the cold when it's so warm and golden in here, with the Christmas lights and the buzz of caffeine, the hum of indistinguishable conversation and muted music.