102818 someone’s hands move emphatically on the other side of the window of the empanada bar. C’est vrai, someone says. Ça, c’est vrai. I have so many questions for you. What are other people thinking about? What is that young lady over there thinking about? She’s holding her phone with both hands. The ghost of a smile explores her face, looking for something it forgot it forgot. Her boots, black and shiny, come up to about 5 inches below her knees. She has black leggings and a charming cream colored loose knit sweater that hangs comfortably off her shoulders and presents a gentle, pleasant “V” that accentuates her breasts. She looks so young to be out here alone. But she doesn’t look as if she feels that young. Psychic voyeurism? I feel like slathering your divining consciousness all over somebody in a cafe is kind of slimy. Like, dude, let her be. Stop making all these assumptions! Why would you even imagine you could “know what someone else was thinking”, and yet it seems impossible not to want to try. My assumptions about her are either presumptuous or fantastic. I don’t see how they could be respectful--unless I actually had occasion to talk to her, to interact with her in some way other than sitting behind a screen sneaking looks and trying to sound like a writer in a cafe getting inspired by a stranger. And I am inspired by her--by everyone, in here and out there. I don’t think that’s a lie. But it’s not because I need to pry their turtle shell heads open and make soup out of the alleged contents of their brains. It’s just because they’re