8:06am

To my left sits a woman blonde and styled, sitting toward traffic � perhaps so men will ogle her. Good reason. She�s wearing Steinem sunglasses and a khaki suit, and she�s reading the Washington Post. Oh, she just got up and left. Now she�s gone. People in this town sure move fast. The woman left her copy of Roll Call. My initial urge is to pick it up, put the pen down, and start reading and staring at the photos; I do enjoy looking at those liver-spotted Congressmen from the Sunbelt states. Reading is another main caf� activity, after writing poetry, talking in circles, and thinking about apocalypse. Or is that just me?

I scoop up the Roll Call, as well as the Post. An extra Post is like having an extra boyfriend � one who tells you dirty stories and lies to you. But you love how he looks, all flamboyant and official, so you keep paying attention to him.

I�ll read the papers later.

Another woman dressed in hipster black sits on my right. She�s got one of those paper anti-handburn cuffs on her cup and her keys on her table. Her posture shows she�s ready to go, probably to work. Did she stop here just to drink coffee? Doesn�t every office serve coffee these days? This is America. If she came here solely to look hurried, why didn�t she wait until she got to the office? When the woman to my left was still sitting at her table, I imagined her and Ms. Hurried and I as part of the same morning crew � an impromptu band of feminists, our backs turned defiantly from the other caf� patrons. But then I realized that the women might not be feminists while the other caf� patrons might, so I let that idea dissolve. Then I imagined us as a trio of ladies in one of those infamous Amsterdam sex shops, on display. But that's just ridiculous, I thought. Fizz.

The blonde woman�s table now accommodates a man. He�s got a book. He reads and I write. He probably doesn�t notice me and I probably won�t say hi. I should ask him if he�s tried Cluck U Chicken yet. Cluck U is the new chicken joint next-door to Tryst. Its bright purple awning peeks out and fills the left corner of my eye. The guy to my left probably can�t see the awning, and if I just ask �Been to Cluck U?� he might not get it. We live in a very literal age in which people respond and react to that which they see right in front of them. The absent is abstract and often forgotten.

Aha! The woman two tables down is writing � proving my theory about coffee culture. For that I thank her; my theories always end up sounding so crackpot to me. This woman looks intelligent and scholarly: Long braids, purple head scarf, orange sweater. Maybe she�s a fashion writer, writing about her personal style. Washington contains all sorts of exotic personalities, many of whom come to Tryst when they want to read, stare out into the street, go on dates, and act like contemporary urban adults. At night the place turns into a bar, and you have to show your ID. That happened to me once, even though I�m 25 already.

A woman�s cell phone rings. When the cell phone choir begins its workday buzzing and bleeping, it�s time to go. I haven�t any work today, but nonetheless I must go off to find some. It�s been so enjoyable being here at my temporary table, even though whoever sat here previously spilled coffee all over the southeastern quadrant. Hot coffee in a trendy mug, free papers, sunshine, blue skies, escalating warmth outside � enough pleasantries to take the mind off the facts that my coffee probably isn�t fair trade, the world�s getting hotter and the polar ice caps are melting, my stomach�s upset, there�s an empty bottle of Old English rolling toward my left foot, and I live in a room that�s so small you can only fit a twin-sized bed in it. It costs $150 a month and it has no shelves, just a windowsill where my toys go and dirty clothes doing pas de deux with clean clothes. I�ll guess I�ll go back there now.