seymour at the cafe

looking over the men seated at the cafe he frequented, seymour realised they were mostly older than him. the fragments of conversations he overheard didn't concern him, the music they played over the radio was from an era past and a discerning observer would surmise the men were mostly here to avoid spending the afternoon with their wives. as they smoked at their tables on the street they grandiosly discussed large currency exchanges and challenged each other's authority on the subject with what appeared to be overzealous vigour.

seymour was always fascinated that people could have so much to talk about. he thought that, if he combined all the worthwhile conversations from his life together, he would struggle to fill much more than a day with talk. but these folk appeared to really enjoy their conversations, especially the newly acquainted boys and the girls, crouched across the table from one another in anticipatory glee. soon enough their thighs would be intertwined. soon enough their hearts would be at odds. anticipation was not a state that seymour relished. it had been a long time since that. he liked to reflect, knowing that the sun had left him unblistered for a day at least without a care for tomorrow and the horror it might bring.