I'm sitting in The Cafe.
Brian Eno is nattering quietly from the speakers and a warm caffine buzz is creeping up my arms. This terminal is situated in a corner at the end of the bar; I'm surrounded on three sides by walls in close proximity. The barstools are at least 15 inches taller than the chair I'm in, so it's a moderately cozy little space. On my left is an employee of the Cafe; he is working with
aphexious on a laptop, laying out a menu.
A man in his mid-twenties with long hair pulled back into a ponytail slips towards me, and leaning over, places an index card on the keyboard.
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| x198223 |
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I pick up the card, turn it over to see if there's anything on the reverse. Printed lines are all I find there. Before I've even finished the cursory examination of the card the man next to me speaks in a quiet parental tone.
"You're doing it again, Mike."
The owner of the card sounds sheepish, or annoyed, or both.
"Can I have my card back?"
I hand it to him and he retreats from my field of view.
I don't know what this means.