Old men talk to me a lot. In the grocery store, in coffee shops, at the bus station... Everywhere. Lately:
I am sitting in Taste in downtown Spokane, waiting to board my Greyhound bus to Portland. As per usual, I have a book ("Invisible Man" for my lit class). I am reading it peacefully, sitting on one of those tall stools that line the window counters, eating my almond croissant and drinking coffee from a burnt-orange mug. Also watching the construction workers jackhammer a big hole in the street.
Two oldish men walk in, and one of them instantly comes over to men and asks me what I'm reading (Tangent: I really dislike being asked what I'm reading. Unless it's something really intelligent and literary. Which, 95% of the time, it is not). I told him, and then he told me that it is "great to see young people reading. Keep up the good work, young lady!" And we had a lovely little conversation.
I am walking into Rocket Bakery (the Sprague one). I am wearing boots that, I'll admit it, look like they should be worn by a Stormtrooper. Yes, they are a bit eye-catching (because, as I said, they look like they should be worn by a STORMTROOPER. Or a go-go dancer. Both good things...) Before I can walk through the door, this old man stops me and comments on my boots. But he doesn't stop there. He follows me back into the bakery and then asks the girl at the counter what she notices about me.
"Ummm... nothing?" she says.
"Her boots! Her boots!" says the old man gleefully.
The barista girl and I both titter awkwardly. And then the he leaves.
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