I'm typing this from Iris Bookcafe, on Main.
The last light is shining down through the latticed driftwood in the courtyard and gathering in buttery pools on the concrete; the pools that were gray from the rain that was falling when we got out of our car to reach the cafe. Ryan and I sitting with intent to study, he with his Irish Breakfast tea (do they really drink that for breakfast in Ireland?) and I with my French Roast Uganda that I love so much. We exchange glances in reference to the strange pulsating rhythms of some undiscovered artist that the establishment has deemed sufficiently à la mode and "artsy", we reflecting that you know, mainstream isn't so bad, and perhaps there's a reason some artists never get "discovered"...
Here all the coffee mugs have eyes, though they do look glazed over.
Coffee from Coffee Emporium, soup from Mira's, ice cream from Aglamesis, all in one spot.
Iris Bookcafe, on Main St.
See you there!
