I tend to be a fairly friendly person. I tend to have patience for people, within reason. I would describe myself as being social. Today when I entered the "coffee shop with zero personality," it was for good reason. The walls are white washed, the tables all uniform and plain, hipster hair and white gleaming Macbooks present at each. I chose this coffee shop above the plethora of charm filled options that grace the streets of East Vancouver for it's cold atmosphere, and pretentious clientele. My hair is not asymmetrical enough for me to be approached by hipsters, nor are my jeans skinny enough, or my shirt shapeless and unflattering enough. This is the place to get work done, distractions minimal, people to distracted by themselves to approach me.
I politely oblige when asked to plug in a charger, or when someone asks about the quality of my internet connection, (it's quite poor at the moment actually). My notebook, and sketchbook, and cellphone are spread across the table around my laptop, headphones securely placed on head. I'm in the zone.
As I search for a word thats on the tip of my tongue, I notice that free tables are few and far between, I claimed one of the last and only available seats. While typing a particularily brilliant line of what I'm sure I thought was life changing prose, I was interrupted by the accent I loathe over all accents. It cuts through me like a searing knife, and makes me cringe,
"Mind i share your table?" asks the Australian woman, book in hand.
Dilemma. You see, I really do mind if she sits here. I've spread myself out, I'm comfortable, and lets face it, this table isn't big enough for the both of us.
"I won't take up that much room." she pleads.
I can't be that person, I can feel the eyes around me watching the situation unfold, so I clumsily and awkwardly in true Jus fashion try and condense my things. Shoving my books back in my bag so that only my phone, laptop and coffee remain on the table.
She sits. Out comes her book, her phone, her notebook, her glasses case, her sunglasses case (it's raining!) her pencil case (?!), her toque comes off her head and lays across my phone. Suddenly, my laptop is perched as close to the edge of the table as possible, my chair is pushed back so I can retain a little leg room comfort and my table has been conquered.
I let her sit, elbows constantly bumping, sloshing coffee out of her cup, legs crossing and uncrossing under the table, bumping yet again. My patience wearing thinner and thinner and me desperately trying to not let my lack of good humour show on my face. After all, I did say she could sit here. Finally, a table opens up, and I make a point of looking at it longingly, hoping she'll get the hint. Ha. No dice.
At this point I am as equally annoyed as I am ashamed of myself for feeling so selfish, so I reach for my cigarettes and make my escape into the drizzle for a quick nicotine cool down. As I'm slowly puffing my way into an early grave, I let fall my veil of feigned imperturbability and I notice through the window, she's watching me.
I return to my seat, re-don my headphones and begin typing. Moments after my return, she gathers her things, slips on her coat, gives me a death glare, and leaves. At long last, my personal space is mine again. My genius is free to flow out, unimpeded by this woman in my bubble.
Yet, here I am, some 600 words later, all previous grand literary postulations buried in frustration and a mild sense of guilt and confusion.
I'm stuck, and my coffee tastes like tomato juice.
