I Don't Swear

Back in the coffee shop. Today I'm watching people. It's amazing how interesting human beings are, as a whole. Honestly, God has such an imagination when he thinks up of people to create. Next to me there's an aging couple hovering over a laptop from last year's hot list. He's bald, she's plump. But they're happy. Past them there's a girl on another laptop from this year's hot list. She's probably twenty, but still acts like the little girl she wishes she still was. A table across from me there's a group of bad-a** bikers, as they call themselves these days. One's in a white shirt and goggles with his worn leather jacket folded sloppily over the back of his chair. He's discussing something probably about his ex-wife to his fellow bad-a**ers. They don't seem like they're listening.
"She still loves me," says the white-shirted man into his tall glass of beer, slouching into his seat as if hoping that the others would accept him as one of their own gruff, bad-a** bikers. He thinks it worked.
"Give it up, Don," says the gray-haired, glasses-topped man across from him. His shirt displayed some sort of guitar brand that he had probably never heard of. "She's five years younger than you and she has two kids and a new husband. Just give it up."
"You'r probably right," says Don, sitting up straighter, adjusting his leather pants so that they wouldn't chafe his thighs so much.
"Of course I'm right," says the glasses-topped guitar man.
"Of course he's right," says the one with the bandanna across his neck and a newish-looking hat covering up his balding spot on the back of his head. He takes a sip of his water from a bendy straw. Bandanna Man wasn't a drinker.
Don lifted himself awkwardly from his seat, half gruffly, half delicately, so that the leather pants wouldn't stick.
"Bathroom," he mumbled, and strutted swiftly and safely to the blue door marked "Men."

And thus, the bad-a** bikers sat, oblivious to a silly little boy who was taking notes.