No heels on Sunday.

Sunday morning at the coffee chop. I enjoy my days here. Of course I enjoy my days elsewhere. But when I'm here, I make it a point to appreciate my synthetic solitude in the flurry of activity. Chaos washes over me, but I am relatively impervious with Mozart in my ear and and a requiem in mind. And consistently, almost rhythmically, people roll in, sometimes alone but usually accompanied and occasionally en mass. Some arrive fully equipped with sandy feet and children tripping over themselves. Some with specially cleated cycling shoes for what I can only assume is their cup o' joe before their marathon training.

But that's all I see, feet to knees, through the small window between the top of my white-rimmed computer screen and the curved brim of my light blue cap. I stare into a reiterated horizon of feet and knees. They shuffle by with intent and I watch with awe, without judgment, entirely curious. The morning sun glares through the glass doors, freshly Windexed by the pleasant girl in the black apron. The feet don't seem to mind, or even notice. Each pair has a story and I secretly wish they would stop to tell me.

An elegantly pedicured pair glides through my view, with a fresh coat of rose pink lacquer and adorned with golden sandals. They seem to barely skim the surface of the polished concrete walk and advance with an air of entitlement. They are beautiful so it is possible they have been told as much. They're followed by a pair more weathered and weary, in rubber slippers, with stories to tell of taxing days and double-shift nights. Chipped yellowing nails and cracked heels, the years of hard labor have left canyons in their wake. That pair steps with purpose, but they are tired. I'm thinking they've come to the right place and watch them file into the growing queue.

The traffic subsides. Momentarily. So I glance down at my own two feet, which were just tucked under me in the big coushy chair. They're pale and scarred and wrinkled in funny places. The pedicure has faded and matches the tired look my feet have mastered. No great story here, just my feet with my scars, my sad cuticles and dull polish. I steel a subdued stare at the feet of the woman next to me. She's got 15 years on me, easily. Her electric blue toenails make me smile. They sit in linen and tweed wedge heels. And have rings. And they're tan. A little too tan, poor things. The sun has taken its toll on her skin. But there they are. Blue and proud.

I tuck my feet back under me and take my stare back to my glowing screen. I think that's enough for now. There will be more to see throughout the day and I promise myself that if I complete at least one more chapter of accounting homework, then I can watch and wonder. I wonder if anyone in the shop wears heels on Sunday.