“May I share this table with you?”

You may. In fact, I insist.

“May I share this table with you?”

It’s Friday at 10am. To say that the cafe I’m sitting in is full would be an understatement. Those waiting to order have begun circling like hawks, scanning the small array of tables with narrowed eyes and waiting for their chance to swoop in.

I would know. I was playing that game just a few minutes ago.

“Of course,” I pull my drink closer so that it does not cross the invisible line that now separates her part of the table from mine.

What is the etiquette of sharing a table with a stranger? It’s small enough that if we both placed our elbows on the surface, we’d bump heads in the middle. I have my AirPods in. Do I remove them? Is it rude that I didn’t offer my name? Is it rude if I offer it now—several minutes into this new shared silence?

She’s drinking an oat cortado. It’s a good order.

Staring down at the book I’m reading (or was reading), I wish that table companionship was a little more like customizing an Uber.

Hello, my name is Morgan and I’m happy to chat this morning. Yes, the temperature is great-

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

I knew she’d notice my clumsy table-mate etiquette, “What?”

“Are you a grad student? I’m curious why you’re tabbing that book.”

The question is refreshingly blunt. Not rude, just direct. I look back down at my book that has upwards of twenty blue tabs sticking out of it, “No, not a student, I’m just-”

Why am I tabbing this book?

“-I don’t know, this is one of my favorite books and I’ve read it many times but I always feel like I read it too fast. I’m trying to go slower this time and tab the spots that I really want to remember. It’s more of an exercise for myself, I guess.”

My edges of my table-mate’s eyes crinkle slightly, amused, “I see. I was curious. I’m a book editor and I don’t often see tabbing done like that.”

I want to ask what she means but I don’t and we resume our separate activities.

A few moments later, “I’m so sorry but I’ve already interrupted you once so I’ll do it one more time. Do you play the NYT Games?”

Religiously. The Mini, then Strands, then Wordle, then Connections. I nod vigorously.

“Have you played the Wordle today?”

I haven’t, “My husband and I do them before going to bed every night.”

She waves a hand, “Ah, well, then I won’t spoil today’s answer but I just had to tell someone this. I have a starting word that I like to use every time. It’s not strategic but it’s my word and today it’s the answer!”

“Congratulations!” I also have a favorite starting word (adieu, I’m one of those people) and I can only imagine the joy I’ll someday feel when I play it and the tiles immediately flip over green, “Oh my word, that makes me excited to play tonight.”

“Soon you’ll know my favorite word.” We’re grinning across the table at each other now, “But don’t let me interrupt you anymore.”

My instinctive response is a surprise to myself, “You’re welcome to interrupt whenever you want.”

I mean it.

---

Working in a coffee shop is a luxury I often indulge in. In part, I like drinking coffee made by others. I also find that it helps keep my hands off my phone, away from the doom-scrolling that I find myself engaging in more and more. Hank Green says I need to take back my attention and dear Hank, I’m trying my absolute best. I’m not sure if this $7 latte is the solution but it’s at least helping a little bit.

I tell myself that I’m taking back my attention as I sit alone at a table for two with my AirPods permanently affixed.

Oh, I’m not all that jaded. Please believe me when I swear that I’m not a full curmudgeon yet. What’s the point of grousing about the state of isolation we intentionally inflict on ourselves when I know all too well that I’m guilty of it as well?

I am the sovereign of my attention and I (try to) manage it with the grace of a benevolent monarch. Week after week, the news cycle is a deluge and I add another $7 latte to my weekly budget to weather it.

Assumedly, we’ve all seen the countless studies and think pieces about how us younger folks are growing further and further apart, our attention spans waning. Like others of my age, my formative young adult years were molded by the covid pandemic. I used to be able to use that as an explanation for why I instinctively shirk away from being as extroverted as I used to be but I fear that it has evolved into an excuse.

I love working in coffee shops. I love being surrounded by and observing people. But really, what I love the most is that they’re forcing me to slowly realizing that I want to be more like the book editor who—instead of turning away at the sight of a full cafe—asked if she could share a table with me.

Talk soon,

Morgan