Breakfast at Noon

This morning at breakfast, next to me, sat two mid-40's women. They chatted casually about life. The restaurant is located within an affluent area of the north side of Chicago. Its aesthetic is humbly demur, cute-chic; idyllic brunch option for this neighborhood. It is set up grocery/cafe style. Small tables, barely fitting two human beings, squeezed next to each other. Strollers everywhere. Children being talked to as adults, withholding equality. The patron demographic is the same. But with this sort money and need for relevant posh vanity comes a certain degree of depth. Two inches is depth too, you know? The woman next to and across from me is the main instigator of their earnest banality:

Halloween is just so overdone now. What happened to the door-to-door days when I didn't have to listen to every bored housewife's monotonous tragedy. I wish I were a Dad! I would get to go out with my child. It'd be much easier. How is Andrew doing now? Will he be okay being out with Mark? or is that still an issue? I hope not.

She continued in this nature for several minutes, with the lesser interested one, directly beside me, sorting through the ideas. There is no tone of exasperation or overdrawn shrill, they are merely talking, very seriously, about how annoying Trick-orTreating has become. I have sympathy for them. Not pity, but sympathy. They care so much because they have nothing of import to direct their attention. They long for passion and love their families and their comfort, so they fixate on the social implications of Halloween being on a weekday this year. The one next to me, she cares, but at a distant. I think she knows that they are discussing something somewhat useless. Her affirmation is just involved enough to propel the other further into the subject. But she is certainly not asking questions. And I'm fairly positive she knows I am listening. I haven't moved in a few minutes and my chicken sausage patty is not that riveting.

A gaggle of children follow behind their Mother Goose. They appear to be Italian geese. All dark featured, olive skinned, inherited from their father.Three boys clad in school uniform, private school, khakis and white polo shirts. The lone little sister is in pink tights and tutu'ed. They all gather, long-faced, around the cupcakes and pastry section, but Mother Goose is here to purchase expensive locally made olive oil and a wine bottle with a trendy label. By her approach to the labels and vague wondering stares she knows nothing of wine. Merlot or Pinot? need not be asked. What is the sweetest? and will this impress them? are the only questions.

But who am I to judge? I am the guy, sitting by himself, way too into his breakfast, staring around by himself. I am overly contemplative and writing. Before I came here, when I was hungry, I sorted through all my previous patronage to find a “cute and good” place to sit and eat and waste time before I went to the gym. I'm no different than the woman next to me, or next to and across from me. I've got too little to do and too little to care about. I actually spend most of my days trying to care about more. I'll finish my breakfast quickly now and move on to something else.