What is it about a Sunday? It may be the fact that I've been up and about since 4:30 am, or it could be the shots of espresso coursing through my veins, causing who knows what damage, but I really had to write something today.
So here we are. I'm sitting at this desk. Above me is a speaker, Fleet Foxes' Robin Pecknold is serenading me, his howling croon rising and falling over pleasant guitars and keyboards. He gives way to the Beatles, singing of socialism and the glory of a fallen country. What takes up most of my view is a rack of picture books, Dora mingling with vaguely Christian bears, Clifford and Scooby Doo spinning over and around one another.
The customers are a mixed bag. An older woman jokes with me about the weather, concluding with the common 'That's Michigan for you' before walking away. A young woman with a British accent goes from flirty to staring at me with some confusion when I ask if she wants her receipt in the bag, answering the question as if I was asking her opinion on whether cat or dog vomit tastes better.
Ah well. Christ, you know it ain't easy.