All Those Pretty People

I was sitting in Starbucks today, looking at those pretty people:
The woman with the Denise-Kellerish hair, wearing the black tank top, three quarter jeans which fit her so well they MUST be branded, and one of those fashionable big belts.
The guy with the really nice profile with too much gel in his hair.
The girl in the off-shoulder polka-dotted blouse caressing the cheek of the boy in front of her.
The ang-moh guy, slightly balding, reading some book on architecture by the window, the light falling on his face in just the right way.
The pretty waitress taking orders at the cashier-raven hair, perfect bangs, perfect smile.

Isn't it weird that nobody at Starbucks has bad hair?

The music.

And that smell. That intoxicating smell of coffee beans, hot water, whipped cream, syrup... and dreams.

How different are their lives from mine?

Their dreams?

Sitting there, I dared to dream about a boy who wore chuck buckleys, and a girl who lost her mary janes.

We left before closing time.

Before the lights were turned off.

Before tired waitresses and waiters took off their aprons and allowed their fatigue to show.

Before pretty people went back to ugly lives.