While peering around a sports bar I see a young lady reading a book. This girl is not trying to read—as I would be in a place with so little serenity—but is un-distractedly reading. She is dressed in loose-fitting, jersey knit, clothing. I cannot say for sure if she is in anyway affiliated with the logo on her sweatshirt. It is close to the end of this Fall semester, so this scene might have something to do with that. The oversized tome leaves little room for accompanying papers. A notebook is wedged underneath that behemoth and unearthed to copy some phase or formula.
I’m surprised by this young lady. Is it because of her choice to study in such a poorly lit, raucous place? Or is it that she seems so unfazed by the televisions occupying every line of sight? It might be that she is so fixed on something that is not a screen. Maybe my amazement stems from my inability to focus so entirely on anything that I read.
Behind a middle-aged man, in line for coffee, I notice a familiar sort of glow from his palm, now raised to within inches of his face. The tiny device emits what seem to be fantasy football numbers or maybe stock prices. He is dressed neatly in a black suit and black shoes. The recent shine on his shoes contrast the wool pants. He does not immediately hear the barista ask his order or he is ignoring her for the sake of concentration.
I’m not so bothered by this man’s distractedness. Instead I wonder why it’s so hard to focus on waiting. Does attentive idling turn a line for coffee into a veritable purgatory? Using downtime to check a smartphone may not be an escape tactic, but it does err toward over-productivity. I enjoy lines, I get some of my best thinking done in them, even if nothing comes of it.
A woman in a café is reading on her little, black Paperwhite Kindle. We could be the same age and have similar tastes though I don’t know what she is reading or how she takes her coffee. I assume it’s coffee, though it could be tea or hot chocolate. The cover of the book doesn’t help as it’s just a thumbnail stored in a file somewhere on this little device. Her patterned scarf straddles the back of the chair. She hasn’t removed her coat, wool and black, so I imagine she won’t be long. She reads in spurts and starts. Her gaze is pulled from the paper-like surface when a new body enters or if the staff grinds coffee. Maybe she is waiting for someone or some thing.
My own experience while reading attests to this woman’s flighty attention span. My bet is she needn’t be in a bustling shop to be so easily drawn from those pages. Reading is a struggle mostly. Reading happens by stolen moments out of the ebb and flow of all goings-on, a page or two at a time. I don’t feel sorry for this woman. Instead I empathize with her, so I won’t interupt to ask what she is reading.