Crying Baby

It's a book store that once was a theatre so the middle is open and sound travels easily. Usually it's just the sound of milk being steamed just below scorching and sometimes it's the sound of forced bar conversations over old music. But today it's a screaming baby boy. Angry, frustrated crying in the arms of a mother with earbuds in; it's the kind of crying that leads to utterly exhausted sleep, but not before trying the nerves of every woman around. I sit paralyzed because there isn't a thing I can do to make it stop except pretend not to notice. It's relief mixed with guilt when she finally gives up and packs him for home—but not before changing his diaper on stage and leaving his scent behind like a big "Stop fucking judging me for not being able to pacify this child."