the husband of the lady who had spilled my coffee was annoyed on my behalf, even though i wasn’t annoyed at all.

she had made the long Paddington Market plastic table wobble when she sat down, and my coffee, filled to the brim of its uncovered cup, used the opportunity to rebel.

“what are you waiting for?!” the husband told his daughter, who stared at the splatter on both sides of my paper cup; she gave me a napkin, one of the two brown ones she had.

my New Yorker and ‘Sausage Sizzle slider’ were on my lap, not the table, so one napkin was all we needed.

this is the same New Yorker that i read between bouldering breaks at the St Peters Climbing Gym, where chalk flies into your eyes if you’re not looking down.

before i had sat down for lunch, i was trying on vintage sunglasses semi-seriously.

i looked so stony, that the saleslady found me fishy, and asked suspiciously if i needed any help, as if she thought i was a business competitor of

but i was taking photos of myself only because, wearing shades, the world became shadowy, and i could not see myself.

later, leaving Paddington Market for Haymarket, i flew down a hill at 21km/hr. i might have been speeding, even though i wasn’t trying to at all.