I walk into a cafe in Freeport, Maine and begin my scan for a place to sit and write. I am drawn to a seat by a window. Writers need windows, places to stare off into, to rest their eyes in between words. There is an adjacent table, where a man with a white beard, a green hat and rainboots sits. I contemplate sitting facing the window instead of the man to eliminate the inherent risk of small talk. I glance over again, his eyes gentle, his mouth almost in the form of a smile. I decide I wouldn’t mind a conversation this morning and set up on the table directly across from him.
Traveling Strangers
Traveling Strangers
Traveling Strangers
I walk into a cafe in Freeport, Maine and begin my scan for a place to sit and write. I am drawn to a seat by a window. Writers need windows, places to stare off into, to rest their eyes in between words. There is an adjacent table, where a man with a white beard, a green hat and rainboots sits. I contemplate sitting facing the window instead of the man to eliminate the inherent risk of small talk. I glance over again, his eyes gentle, his mouth almost in the form of a smile. I decide I wouldn’t mind a conversation this morning and set up on the table directly across from him.