Cafe

I sit near the milk stand. I drink my coffee black and notice how long some people take there, carefully adding the right amount of sugar, slowly tearing the packets. Even if there's a line behind them, they remain deliberate and unhurried.

Some seem oblivious to me, only a few feet away.

There is a man now, talking to himself, commenting on the number of packets, muttering complaints about the the milk pitcher is backwards.

I'm not sure how a round object might be considered backwards. And doesn't the spout point in the right direction once you grab the pitcher by its handle?

Still, he's very upset. I quickly glance at him. He is wearing a bitter frown.

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