fatheads n' honkey-tonks

Scooted away from work to sit in the Saturn Cafe for a few minutes to find what could be offered. Behind me, a mid-life woman of Iowa looking stock talking long and half-coherent to an empty chair, as she adds sugar packet after sugar packet to a cup of not-touched caffeine. She muddles as best she can through a family drama, swimming around with half-created conversations and disconnected histrionics.

In front, a pair of almost twenties chitter-chatter along like rewritten Nora's ... sent back to the warm, iron grasp of the doll's house.

On the corner stands the pan-handling young man seen a half-dozen times on the streets of Satan Cruz. He has grown to sport a backpack, giving a collegial look if but on the quick-glance. I've never heard his pitch, but it is always spun with a smile to the women he approaches. There is something disturbing about the way he seeks and shifts. It makes me think of my own predatory instincts and I shiver ... in dread of losing that battle.

Biker after biker pass the cafe - all transportation bound and none the thrill-seeking type I surround myself with every weekend. Some are shirted, while some expose a light sheen of perspiration to the cool, ocean air as they pedal either urgent or pleasure paced.

Does the sweat scent the same?