In the coffee shop, hunters stalk empty chairs and coveted places on the sofas.  They strut to signal entitlement to the next space.  Eye contact warns the competition while sweeping the room for openings.  They respond to an emptying table quickly, elegantly disarming the competition, reclining as if destined to sit in that seat at that table at this time.

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I had a good cappuccino today.  The coffee had the bitter aftertaste of tobacco. The milk was sweet and frothy.  Sophisticated and childish at the same time.

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A red Mac glows across the coffee shop, startling the senses in a sea of brushed chrome and aluminum laptops.  It gives a vampirish twist to its user, a handsome African American man in his 30s.  Did he arrive from Shreveport?

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I look through the coffee shop windows to the tattoo parlor across the street.  Its shabbiness reassures me that the neighborhood has not been overly gentrified.  If it goes, we will mourn the opportunity to mark our bodies with permanent ink in sobriety or insobriety.

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In the coffee shop, we are together in our solitude.  We have made a pact to be a silent community as we type and text and surf.  In the urban world, we will be physically present, but virtual travelers.