Much Ado About Nothing

We've all seen them. The jocks who slouch lazily, leaning back precariously on their chairs immersed in an intense argument about last night's hockey game. One massages his head and guzzles down orange juice for his throbbing morning-after headache. Another rushes in, garbed in a mismatched disarray of oversized clothes. "Who won?" he asks eagerly though he stayed up to watch the game and can stage a play-by-play instantaneously in his mind. No use letting the others know there had been no "big date" last night. The sophisticates, only a table over, scoff at their contemporaries' trivial banter. They demurely sip café-au-lait, flash ornate-ringed fingers and chatter loudly about the recent avant-garde film but none admits to having missed it. In a distant corner of the room, Romeo hums softly to himself. His clothes cling to his gaunt frame and shadowy crescents are carved beneath his blue eyes. As he hastily gulps down an espresso, he utters a few insipid poetic phrases. With identical scorn, the jocks and sophisticates roll their eyes. Soon, however, Romeo and his futile romanticism have faded as they order steaming refills to their unusually silent tables. Finally, they glance in annoyance at each other and, like Romeo, continue their all-important, self-consuming conversations about nothing.