Panera Bread

I am sitting in Panera Bread, and I notice that everyone is doing their own thing, not paying any attention to me. A couple just comes in from the cold of this March night, and, with their noses red and their coats still on, march up to the big overhead desplay menus and consult. She is on the left and has her head cocked away from him, and he is standing, arms folded, behind her, protecting her.

A woman on a red razor cellphone and a bag that looks like a getaway bag for bank robbers gets in the order line and shifts her weight from her left foot to her right and back to her left.

A man of middle east desent looks in my window, scouting out if this is a good warm place. Deciding so, he pushes in the door only to find that, in fact, the door is a "pull" door from the outside. He is standing in line now, facing away from me. He tilts his head back as if relaxing a crick in his neck and looks back at the menu again.

There is a woman of southern asian look who is talking on a mouthpiece pluged into another razor, this time black. She waits, hearing the other end, and her reply is lost in the hustle and busle of noise.

The woman with the red razor just exits the store out the far doors and makes the short walk to I don't know where