Rules

Table available. Backpack down. Latte with skim and cherry cheese pastry. Conversation with a friend at his table, not mine. Time passes. Minutes, five, ten, fifteen, twenty or so. Bathroom stop, pee, wipe and wash. Return to solitary location to do homework. Backpack gone. "I moved it," says a man sitting nearby. "You were gone for thirty minutes." We argue. Another man offers me his table because he does not want people to fight. But I seem ready, almost waiting for one. Perhaps the heat and humidity fuel the fervor filling my chest. My feet stomp with little effort to the staff. Like Charlie Brown's mother on television I blurt out "wah wah wah" to them. Mr. Backpack Mover is six feet tall and weighs at least two hundred pounds. My petite frame hardly compares to his Viking stature. I find another table but then my original choice opens. I carry my books, now out of the backpack, to my first choice. Mr. Backpack Mover blocks my path, saying that I cannot have the table. But I will. No you will not, he says, and sits. I offer to share with him or anyone. He refuses, picks up my books and throws them across the floor. We have an audience. I reach for my mug. He stands up and heads out the door. I'm thankful because my coffee tastes too good.