Grieving Seaweed

Somewhat mollified, looking forward to ingesting caffeine that I in no way needed, I head outside, vaguely annoyed but simultaneously relieved that I had to endure, then survive, a whole series of barista negotiations to get my cup of coffee, my properly prepared cup of coffee.  I sit down and begin thumbing through my "borrowed" NY Times.  Perhaps, you think, I should be analyzing my tendency to borrow newspapers meant only for purchase instead of smugly criticizing overworked Starbucks' employees.  Perhaps, I think, mulling it over, you should mind your own business.

It's a beautiful day and the outside patio that Starbucks shares with a number of restaurants is pretty crowded.  I notice that there are a few people eating at tables that are meant for Starbucks customers.  You can tell because they have big umbrellas with "Starbucks" emblazoned on them - the tables, not the renegade customers.  I find this vaguely annoying.  I don't know why: I have a table and it's really none of my business what anyone else is doing at an establishment with which I have no official connection.  The Starbucks employees themselves don't seem to care, occupied as they are with customers trying to reorder perfectly fine drinks and chasing homeless people from their bathrooms.  

The power of these people who aren't bothering anyone to draw my attention away from my borrowed newspaper astounds me.  I am really quite acutely aware of their presence.  They aren't behaving properly.

It has occurred to me over the last six weeks that this is likely some back-splash from my father's death and not a rational, disinterested analysis of table squatters.