A married couple, white male and Asian female, in their mid-30s, with matching wedding bands on their respective ring fingers, are sitting directly in front of me. Each has a black iPhone4, the former on Yelp saying “Chez Mama,” a french bistro exactly one block away. The man’s hands are pink, soft, and perfectly manicured; it’s safe to bet he not only has an office job, but one at which he is generously compensated. He is wearing a dark grey Columbia fleece sweater and drinking tea, a pallid and disappointing choice compared to coffee, and one wonders if he’s a wuss. The Asian woman is likely first generation Chinese or Korean, grew up in the Bay Area or New England, obtained a Bachelor’s and Master’s in Economics and Business, respectively, in the shortest amount of time feasible, and now makes a little over a quarter of a million at an investment firm. The man, neither the bread or argument winner, is now holding his iPhone in “landscape” mode and typing some kind of message—transcribing it from/for his wife, who just said “concurred”—with both of his thumbs in the fashion one would imagine him doing so. I’m sharing a table with them because we had simultaneously lunged at it the moment it opened up. A rationalist, I said, “we can share it,” as opposed to the more docile “can we share it?” The woman was visibly exasperated, but conceded. I gave them the more comfortable booth seats and took the wooden chair because I’m a gentleman. The barista, who seems really mellow and has a lot of things in his ear, has acutely asymmetrical hair and has put on the band Phoenix for everyone to listen to. The lead singer of Phoenix is married to Sofia Coppola, who wrote and directed a film in which a bored protagonist mistakes her entitled idleness for profundity. The majority of the patrons are either typing intensely into their MacBooks or idly browsing, the former group usually flanked by papers, pads, pens, all things evocative of imminent deadline. The wifi password here is the name of the cafe, save the possessive apostrophe in the latter. I should mention the old man, with no technology to interface with, finished with his coffee, duly sitting there with little purpose, clearly without plans for the day. The sacks beneath his eyes seem like reservoirs for past tears. The successful interracial couple eventually finished what they were doing, got up and left without looking in my direction. I keep making eye-contact with the dog tied to a tree outside, giving it a sardonic look of exaggerated facial expression, whose playful irony (perceived mockery as indiscernible empathy) it cannot understand.