The Gallery Expresso is one of my favorite haunts. It's old Savannah with a young, hip vibe with small wooden tables, a wide variety of antique chairs, and giant windows to admire the beauty of the city and to people watch.
Just through the front door, immediately to the right is a table for one, literally in the corner with a perfect view of the square and I love ordering a cup of Java, setting up my laptop and spending a morning writing here.
It's simply a great place to sit, collect myself, allow my thoughts to roam and write and on this bright, crisp December morning, that's what I intend to do.
In no time at all, as steam rises from the mug, my fingers fly across the keyboard as I'm transported to another Universe, following where the words take me.
Occasionally, I stare out the window through Chippawa Square into the world I'm creating, sipping the coffee while wondering what comes next.
Suddenly the light darkens and near vision returns to my eyes.
Sitting back, unfolding the newspaper, he studies it intently with one eye.
Who reads newspapers anymore?
They're passe, a waste of trees, bad for the environment, full of yesterday's happenings and cost too much.
Except for the Pirate dude sitting outside my window.
It's the New York Times he's reading, available for free to Gallery Expresso customers.
Specifically, it's a story on the death of famous photographer Robert Freeman under a good size picture of John Lennon.
I'm a huge Beatle fan so, as frustrated as I am the guys invaded my space, even though he's outside and I'm inside, I read over his shoulder.
We eventually finish, he turns the page and my outrage returns.
Who is this one eyed Jack dressed in black fascinated with yesterday's news?
Pushing my laptop aside, I watch him read.
He takes his time.
Obviously he likes his coffee cold as no steam rises from the cup on the table in front of him.
Grabbing a refill for my own mug, I spend the better part of the next hour watching him read.
He never feels my presence, words aren't shared and we never make eye contact.
Did I just write that?
We never make eye contact?
My phone buzzes reminding me I have to be elsewhere, so I pack up, leave him hiding behind the Times rush on to what's next.
Driving away I find myself hopeful he returns when I do though I'm uncertain as to why other than he's obviously got a story to tell and I'd like to hear it.
Now, what was I writing about?
