she'd been going to the same restaurant for years; every monday afternoon, she'd walk down from her third floor walkup, around the block, and get a table by herself. after ordering the requisite coffee, she would pull out her brown notebook and begin to write. usually, there were many observations to be made: the aging couple in the corner always had an interesting argument, often about the kids, the cat, the garbage. it was generally commonplace, because they'd been having the same conversation for years, but it made for good type.

the bickering could go on for days, because it never had a beginning or an end. they'd been together for so long that their interactions centered on a general dissatisfaction with life; it was nothing to do with each other, really, but every disappointment that they'd ever endured was now let out on their spouse, because they knew nothing else.

there were other regulars: the ancient bearded man that sat at the counter and ordered a slice of apple pie with black coffee, the plump woman that brought in various friends to taste her favorite pastries, the after school crowd looking for donuts and handouts; she knew them all.

the personal interaction was her fuel; the server seemed flustered but friendly, so her writing centered around that woman's background: why is she waiting tables? is she in school, paying her way until graduation? is she supporting a child, paying for preschool until that deadbeat father gets his life together? is she in the middle of a twenties crisis, post grad but pre adulthood?

too deep, she thought. just wanted to write about prepubescent wayward middle school youngsters, or nonsensical septennial altercations, but this had resulted in self reflection. so it went, as a regular, because you could never separate yourself from the others that shared your space.