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Choosing the table furthest from the door, I watch the peopled place. Sitting down at the table in front of me, she faces me and I wonder whether she’s the curious type. She fills her mouth with the butter bread of a croissant failing to know, or failing to care, that I am witnessing it all. Is there something intimate about watching one eat? Is it as personal as an English teacher prying into the lives of their students’ minds through assigning creative journals? Curiosity is not there, not a speck. She’s completely indulged in her own world. Reading lines out loud to the café audience, such as “that’s what I want” as her eyes fiercely dazzle at her book, or “Siri what did the animals in Animal Farm eat for breakfast?” said too loudly, so that the nearest man turns towards her in mistrust. “Green Jell-O” “OOOOP” Today the café has both their radio, and their customer humming tunes for the town. She speaks, and whispers worded jingles into the air closest to me. Paying more attention than the rest, I feel more teacher-ly and more intrusive. She did sit facing me.