Sitting under the shade of a red, weathered sun umbrella outside a little coffee shop, I exchange a knowing glance with a tall, twenty-something camp counselor as he leads his group of boys along the shop fronts. They're on a scavenger hunt I think; when they were on the other side of the Commons he checked off a few things on his list that the boys had found: Barney and Charlotte's Web in the window of a used bookstore. He mentions something about needing a cattle-prod to keep them in check, and they scream in amusement, quickly returning to laughing and yelling incoherently about nothing in particular.
I feel the burns on my fingers from the coffee mug as I turn the page of my book:
Page 242
"Frodo found himself walking with Gandalf. 'This is the Hall of Fire.' said the wizard. 'Here you will hear many songs and tales--if you can keep awake. But except on high days it usually stands empty and quiet, and people come here who wish for peace and thought. There is always a fire here, all year round, but there is little other light.'"
The patterns of clouds passing over the sun flow across the pages as the sentences roll by. A man with dreadlocks down to his knees greets one of his friends sitting in the amphitheater. His friend has been there for a while now, his head bend over the neck of his guitar, bespecktacled eyes picking out the same five chords over and over, periodically looking up and acknowledging the passers-by. A little down the way a man raises his fists in victory and grins at his opponent over a chessboard, clearing the pieces off of the table and declaring, "It's all mine!" Even further down a woman sits in conference with a bronze statue seated at a table, frozen in time, left hand spread out over notebooks and folders, right hand gripping a cup of coffee.
Birds chirp,
Couples chat,
A topless woman walks down from one end of the Commons to another, holding her t-shirt carelessly in one hand.
And I live here?
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