9:32 pm. Man in running shorts, cowboy hat, other acoutrements approaches me. Flip flop noise comes from plastic shoes. Carries an umbrella, tells me I'm "ADP. All Day Pretty." I thank him. He also tells me I shouldn't drink my coffee with the lid on. Something to the extent of "the warmness does funny things to the plastic." Plus, he adds, it will taste better. I told him I have my reasons for the lid.
"You know black Kim..." man at the other table says. Says it costs him twelve dollars a month to stay at the YMCA. The tablemate, a woman's shoulder, is scarred. She wears a bikini top and a gritty laugh. People I know are inside yet I'm out here, withdrawn from something and drawn into something else, a conversation that's not mine. I know I'm avoiding something but I don't know what.
I'm reading "The Me Nobody Knows," copyright 1969. Page 20:
"I am not like all the other children. I'm different because I like to hear birds singing but I don't like to hear people shouting. It is not nice to hear people yelling or shouting in the street."
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