separate togetherness

There's something quite zen about an afternoon to while away, a glass of wine, a book, and a bar.

Safe solitude amongst the masses. The clink of silverware against plates. The orchestral banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. The high tones of women's voices offset by the low murmurs of their male companions with the occasional monkey howl of an infant whose parents thought they were ready for the decorum of a public place. They all harmonize together into a comforting chaos and I fall into it, both apart and not a part of the scene. When my engrossment falters, I like to look around me and wonder what brought the patrons to this place. Sunday, this barfly perched next to me on his stool in between intervals to the bathroom, sniffed vigorously, jerking his head to look around, and muttering to himself under his breath- having a one-sided conversation with his own demons. I wonder what happened to him- what the steps were from the babe born to the coked up old man with glass straps downing beer after beer. I have always depended on the company of strangers.