Pan por la tarde
I can hear two men; one is teaching the other how to speak Spanish. We are all sitting in a Panera Bread.
There are two bowels of bread on a table.
Above the table are artistic renderings of bread: a woman holding a baguette in one hand, with the other hand lifted to her face, a single slender finger extended to her cheek. I’m eating bread.
Above the table are artistic renderings of bread: A portrait of a round bread shape, flour-white crosshatching on the top, nestled between pieces of different fruit, a still-life depiction of a bountiful table. Fruit, fruit, fruit, bread.
I’m eating. My own piece of bread is parted on the table, half of a baguette split into two. The cashier walks by to ask, “Is it too cold in here?” I shake my head no. The cashier likes my coat. The cashier likes my bag.
I am wearing my coat, though it is not too cold.
I am more comfortable being slightly warm than slightly cold. I often forget that people can see you, take in information about the ways you’re performing, and analyze your behavior to mean something larger about your feelings about the world around you, and your place in it, beside their own perceptions.
The cashier comes back with a tiny remote which operates a gas lit fireplace in the wall. She turns it on and smiles at me…
