Rhode Island, BB

I am sitting at the fourth table to the left of the entrance, nested near the fridge. D. looks at me from my phone; his face is there because I want to remind myself of the direction I'm heading. Outside of these doors, there could be a terraced seating area overlooking a Marina: small round tables, allowing for intimacy, but never too close. The guy who brought me the flat white and the coffee cake just slammed them on the table, and I had to rearrange the spoon, the fork and the dish because there is always a penny missing to make a pound. He didn't bring sugar, so he will need now to come back. The tables are fake distressed wood out of plastic, and mine is also wobbly.

A tall guy just came in laughing by himself, followed by a girl who spent all the birthday money on a large tattoo of a rose covering her bosom and no books in her hands. I decided to wear headphones now because my pretended coughing did not deter the laughing-while-entering guy from watching loud videos on his phone. It is 3:14 pm: I have been sitting here for nine minutes, and I don't like this town. Of course, there is no seating outside; just kids banging on the windows and finding it funny. A very thin mother lights another cigarette while looking at her child in the pram. I have decided that even this contrast between where I'd like to be and where I am, is important; anywhere I can find a newspaper.

In my heart, I am already some thousands of miles away, where the tables are in real wood, and there is that handful of warm sand between the planks, and the girl serving me is kind, smiley, and she knows my order. I let her do her thing, and she lets me do mine, which is sitting at the table with pen, paper and words as a painter would have brushes, canvas and strokes while listening to the lapping of the water under the terrace. The morning wake-up music from the local radio station is dedicated to the commuters; a couple of boats just came in, and maybe they have been out fishing all night, and if I am fast enough, I can buy some before they run out.

I'm here learning this new sea, its smell, the wind, because any location has its own. Still, water is enough for me. I have this sense of slight vertigo when on land that magically disappears when I'm close to the water. Here, the rack for the newspapers is empty. The cappuccino the woman sitting opposite me is drinking has the size of a small sink, and her face seems to disappear at every sip. This place looks like it could be frolicking with students, books, and some philosophical conundrums thrown at you by the guy making the coffee, who owns this place but also has an MA with a dissertation on the influence of the French language on Jack Kerouac. But the newspaper rack is empty near the door, and there is always that one penny missing.

Another guy just came in and moved all the chairs like being possessed by an impetus of OCD, and this includes the empty chair at my table. I move mine again with my foot, the petty me. Alabama Shakes are now playing, so I take my silent headphones off while the guy from moving chairs inside has gone to shifting tables outside. He opens the door, then closes the door. Everything is neatly placed on his table: coffee, water, gloves, red ashtray, and my patience.

Anyway, this cafe and the newspaper rack are both empty now.