Coffee shop, Monday PM. She’s over there, right leg crossed over the left, foot tracing a circle. Brown tumbles dipping just below her glasses. Hardback novel in hand – some fantasy affair with a lavish cover. She’s drinking a “-ccino” something, a cold drink, one of the cafe’s specialties. She must be quite taken with the book ‘cuz she hasn’t sipped her drink in several minutes. The cup is sweating and a small pool is forming. I suddenly notice the bustle in here and the activity of the other patrons threatens to draw my attention away. The simple sight of this woman reading holds me. It may be her calming expression – her ability to seemingly block out what I struggle to. Somehow she seems watchful. I think it’s her bare ankles, veined and weathered, that are the story for me. There’s a lively history written on those glosting ankles. Blue ink on incomplete pages. A map or a white coffee cup. Nice ring on her finger.