Carrboro.

Pass a crowd of umbrellas, adults, dogs, students marching for a cause (not sure which cause). It’s raining; Weaver Street is populated but not packed.

It’s warm, springtime rain—people sit outside on porches, under awnings with coffee and conversation. Eight-year-old confidently orders a decaf cappuccino (I was not that sophisticated).

Find a parking spot. It’s the Sunday before the last week of class/ exams; I feel accomplished. Find a table. Not a couch, or an armchair, but a table; I feel even more accomplished. Small victories.

Realize that there are at least ten people with flutes, guitars, fiddles sitting around playing in Open Eye. Folk music? Irish music? Not sure. They sound incredible (but now I can’t focus). Wish I was talented (ha). Kids jump on the couches, my favorite hippie walks in wearing a straw hat, beard, beaded necklace, Uggs, and scarf. Students type away at final papers, fueled by massive, cozy mugs of coffee and organic tea. That guy outside the window is reading a Kindle, earbuds in—he precisely placed flowers around his latte (which he’s not actually drinking) so who knows what that’s about. Maybe he just likes things to be pretty? Fair enough.

Dude rides by on a tiny bike carrying a tray with four coffees in it. True talent right there. Thank goodness for interesting people, they’ve ruined me for boring and homogenous forever.

Sleepy Sundays, April showers. It’s the little things, you know?

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