Independence Day

People in coffee shops on holidays surely have stories.

There is a woman sitting a few tables away from me, a large black woman in bright cheerful hospital scrubs, light blue with garish yellow and pink shooting stars. She is cradling a cell phone between her shoulder and her ear, chuckling knowingly, a Dell laptop open in front of her and a large textbook resting on her lap. She is in her fifties. I imagine she is a returning student, possibly pursuing a nursing degree, just finished a shift at the medical center up the way and is preparing for her next examination. The person she is speaking with is maybe her daughter, a freshman at a college several states away, and they are commiserating about having to study on a holiday.

Beside her, one table over, there is a young white man in his twenties, scruffy hair, lazy beard and eyes too jaded for his face. He has a cup of coffee in front of him but has not touched it. Is his heart broken? Could be. Could be that the girl who was, until recently, his fiancee, his high school sweetheart, is out at a cookout with another man, throwing back her head and laughing to reveal huge white teeth with a distinguishing gap between the front two, holding a Bud Light in her hand and letting the other man catch her by the waist. It begins to rain outside the coffeeshop, and the pensive young man's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but a little satisfaction: rain is bad news for people at a cookout. He reaches for the cup but still does not sip the coffee.

Outside on the patio, protected by a black-and-white striped awning, enjoying the sudden shower, sits an elderly man with a middle-aged woman. The elderly man is a librarian, gay and fastidious about topiary and household upkeep. My imagination is not running away with me this time- these facts are true, because I know him; he used to be a neighbor of mine, up until about two years ago, when I left for graduate school. He glances at me occasionally, because something about me is familiar, but he can't quite place me. I don't know the woman he is with. What if she is his daughter? What if he had this whole other life before he was my neurotic shrub-loving neighbor? On this holiday Wednesday, where is his male companion, and who is the woman taking his place?

The two men sitting behind me are loud, brash, both wearing solid gold wedding bands, going over blueprints for a house or an office. One man is clearly the client, one the architect. They are talking about foundations, pouring cement, deadlines for city inspections. This couldn't wait until tomorrow? Where are the wives indicated by the rings, the children each alludes to having? Perhaps one has a wife who recently left him, and he wants no one to know, so he keeps the ring, keeps his mouth shut, and keeps all appointments, in order to get out of his own empty, well-designed home. Perhaps the other is a workaholic, unable to meet during the workweek with an architect for something to be constructed in his personal life. Maybe his family is keeping hot dogs warming on a cooling grill, waiting for him to finally give a little bit of time over to them.

The most interesting table is all the way in the back, a family that looks lost or at some halfway point on a road trip, out of place, painfully stereotypically rural-Southern. They were standing in front of me when I waited to order my coffee. Two older women, one middle-aged woman, one middle aged man, and one little girl, ten at most. They are all dressed in red, white, and blue. The little old women whispered to each other the whole time, and paid jointly for their coffees but not for the younger set, though they are clearly all together. The middle aged couple seem to be married; they stumbled over the pronunciation of the fancy espresso drinks, and when the woman teased the man, he threatened to slap her, evoking more whispering from the little old ladies and a small shudder from the little girl. When they finally finished ordering and headed to their seats, the big comfy chairs in the back that I had been eying for myself, I could see that the little girl was clutching a Jonathan Kellerman novel to her chest, eagerly telling the old ladies about the latest plot twist as they ignored her, continuing to whisper to one another. My heart broke a little and I wanted to ask her to tell me more about what she's reading, ask her if she's read any of Faye Kellerman's books.

I wonder if any of these people are wondering about me - why I am so overdressed, a young woman by herself, sitting at a coffeeshop on Independence Day. I wonder if they can guess the histories I have created for them, the names and traits and stories I have assigned to them. I wonder if they think I am anything like any of them.

The truth is, I am like all of them. I recognize them all, and though I don't know their real stories, I feel as if I do. After all, we do have a few things in common. We all have stories. And we're all the sort of people you could find at a coffee shop on a holiday. Somehow, being here feels a little bit patriotic.... and now it's time for me to leave the cafe. Happy 4th of July.