Table hopping

I'm an unabashed table-jumper. I suspect this is one of those things you're really not supposed to do at coffee shops that people do anyway. I do my best to make up for it by buying something small every time I jump tables, and by not leaving a mess behind. (I regularly see people fail to bus their own tables. Now that's a real crime.)

There's something to be said for hopping tables. You get a new perspective on the same block of time. If one section of floor is boring, you move to a new one, simple as that.

This morning I overheard the people next to me (despite their valiant attempts to remain hush-hush) discussing the employees. It was a young straight couple I see here fairly often. She's all about the sweet-young-innocent PDA thing, always touching his hands. It's endearing. They're a cute couple. They had one of those moments where they were trying to recall one barista's name:

She: Who's the other one? The one with the glasses?
He: I heard his name once but I can't remember.
When next she speaks, her voice is a conspiratorial whisper.
She: I swear I heard him say "Sequoia."
The two look around carefully to make sure no one is listening.

There's something about these kinds of awkward exchanges that just tickles me pink.

They were entertaining for a while, but then it was time for a change of scenery. I'll admit it: one of the little pleasures of table-hopping is the possibility that you'll end up sitting in just the right spot to observe someone cute.

Alas, no such luck today. Maybe next time.