She was . . . very British. Full English breakfast. Not the vegetarian one for her. Doc Martins. Dark green, black and brown floral tights. And that accent, oh, that accent. Well, I didn’t hear it, but I can imagine . . . Continue reading Café Girls: The Book Club, Shoreditch, London
The café seemed to just part when she walked in. In that way that happens when everyone seems to look up at once. Or inhale at the same time. I noticed from a balcony at the back of the place, in between glimpses at The Economist, and thoughts about American democracy. She sat next to me and did not look up for the next two hours. I did. It was as if . . . she were posing. Quintessential Café Girl: Café Babe. Continue reading Café Girl: The Quintessential
“And she spoke words That would melt in your hands And she spoke words of wisdom” (Two Door Cinema Club, Undercover Martyn) ___________________ She spoke about competing representations of love in literature . . . London, Soho, April 2013 Continue reading Café Girls — Seeing Red
She was tutoring some sort of science, maybe med school. In a near-empty La Pain Quotidien on a Saturday evening, I was in my normal spot at the center, farm table. She sat right in front of me. There’s a rule I came up with over the years. If someone sits next to you, talk to them. She was soon joined by the student who, more classic in her beauty, could not touch her. Elegant, sophisticated yet simple, could not take your eyes off of her. That is a Café Girl. I think our eyes met a good twelve times. And … Continue reading Café Girl: The Tutor
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