By Mark Miner

    He didn't like the food at the little café on 11th Avenue, but he liked to sit in the shade of an umbrella and watch the girls walk by.  The little aluminum tables were scuffed and the chairs rocked on the flagstone pavement, but it was warm early this March, and a breeze caressed his arm hair.  Legs crossed nonchalantly, he rested his cappuccino elbow on his knee as a brunette in a sun dress wafted past.  He smiled as she glanced his way.  She smiled back.  
    Most of the girls in the English department knew him by now.  He had interviewed a number of them for his thesis.  He was "Exploring the Creative Processes of Female Writers in a Postcapitalist-Postmodern Society".  It had worked brilliantly.  The brunette, Anna, was a Journalism junior.  He had interviewed her last year, over dinner, and then pursued the inquiry, as it were, straight from the horse's mouth.  They had a fun time together, but he had never desired to bed her.  It would have ruined objectivity.  
    The cappuccino was returned to the table, and he picked up his pen and steno pad.  A few scribbles on the page, a furrowed brow, and he had the sub-outline for his next section complete.  He brushed a curl of hair away from his sunglasses with his eraser, and thought about his life.  It had been a thoroughly enjoyable one for the last few years.  He had socked away a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology in five semesters, then completed a Bachelor of Music in guitar in another six.  He decided to get his Master's in English after reading a demographic study of the various departments.  The English department had maintained 2.63 females for every male.  Three semesters and a dozen girls later, he still loved every aspect of his higher education.

Author's Note:    I knew people like this.  They could be fun to hang out with, but they were a boring once you got to know them.

 

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