I’m surrounded by men, some crouched over their silvery laptops, others with designer noses stuck in books-- a writhing sea of men, unruly waves of them, each one a precious drop of water and I am dying of thirst.
As I sip my coffee, I imagine them preening and parading before mirrors in early morning sunlight, skin glistening from ice cold showers as they shake the water off their bodies like wet ducks.
Packed into their butt-tight trousers they fan out in their too-small metal chairs. I smell them in the coffee-coated air, taste them in my erotic sips of vanilla latte.
A nose-ringed man, far too young for me, strokes his rosy tattoos, then gazes hard in my direction. I look around the room for a magic drink to melt my years away, but see only ravished scones on crumb-filled tables.
Finally at lunchtime, the men stop clicking and scurry outside like giant gleaning bugs released from bottles. I watch them skitter across the sidewalk on their long pale legs-- abandoning me to my desperate imagination and to the groans of the virile bean-crushing Grind Master.