Underwater

An hour early for class, last first class of the year, last time I’ll stand bewildered on the corner of a street watching the cars zoom by within the audience of some wondrous and historic architecture. It’s much too early. Any other day I’d still be driving or leisurely cooking breakfast so instead I’m sitting at a window seat in a hole in the wall called the Brannan Street Café in the warm post breakfast begal sandwich and coffee glow. As the mixed group of seeds that sit on top of the everything begal that hugged the protein I just consumed slide down my digestive tract to their new home atop my stomach lining I can’t help but to think upon how remarkably “homemade” this meal felt (partly because, I truly think it was).

There are just two people behind the counter. An assertive and positive man, whom I can only assume came up with the ideal to sell his home-made cooking on a side street in San Francisco just spitting distance from both AT&T park and the ferry; and a quiet and demure female (I guess she’s the wife). Pandora plays some random hit from nineteen eighty and I can hear the faint rumblings of a television sitcom coming from the kitchen.

As I sit and type, thinking about the copious amounts of homework that stare at me from across the shore of that river I call Friday, people begin to filter into this small establishment. Groups and individuals, they’re all engrossed within their own worlds. Talking amongst themselves, until they reach the counter (just a few steps past the glass doors). Everyone joyfully places an order for what ever might plague them this early Wednesday morning.