Read some Yelp reviews about Black Brick and was already intimidated by the place.  Mean to Asian girls.  Nice to white tough lesbians.  Nice to Latinas with Dachshunds barking outside.  Nice to good looking tall white Dads with strollers and baby carriers.   Will they be nice to me?  I take a seat with my coffee at the laptop-free table.  Opening my camera bag afraid that they’ll reprimand me regardless.  I ask permission to take a photo.  “For what?” The long-haired braided barista says.  “For my personal collection.” I say.  He’s not convinced.  “Don’t worry, I’m not some Instagrammer or something.  I try to compose a shot.  Not enough light.  A sign?  Put the camera back in my bag.  I grab the paper.  Useless news.  Flip.  Useless commentary.  Flip.  And fold.  I return it to the laptop free table.  Am I done here.  Rise.  Return to my stool and stare out the window.  Why am I reacting?  Who am I?  Once again.  It’s about me.  The half-truth.  “For what” steps out for a vape break.  I want to take his photo as the hot wispy fumes escape from his lips.  I can’t do it.  No guts! Dang!  Instead I snap a phone pic of a lady waiting with her dog.  Customers come and go.  My left ear overheard, “At a tattoo shop on Friday nights” says For-what.  Rant finished.  I should probably go.