It didn't make much sense to him, that you could swamp out a coffee or tea for a vodka or beer and have everything be different. If the music was louder and worse, if the light was gone, if the space was cramped, if the people weren't so pleasantly hush and considerate—and if there were many, many more of them—then suddenly a "Hello" became acceptable. Take everything decent and friendly about the place, change it up, or at least overcharge people for alcohol, and the sky's the limit. Who set those standards?
Halfway between retro and trendy, chic and punk, she had circular sunglasses and a timeless skirt. He wanted to say "I've seen you before," "I really dig your style," "I'm so sorry to bother you but..." But he couldn't. Could he? People around would hear, they would scoff and judge as they do, they would think I can't believe this guy, can you believe this guy, who does this guy think he is, let her work in peace. They wouldn't think twice at the bar just down the road. But why not? Why couldn't he say those things, ask those questions? Would she not see how perfectly nice of a guy this stranger is? Wouldn't she appreciate the difference in it all, the absence of a implicated tryst? Wasn't he, in a sense, a pioneer?
But she left, as he was thinking, before he could say or ask any of that. Better to leave it alone. Leave the courage for the pint glass, anxiety for the mug.
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