Midway through a lunch hour I'll break out the journal book and start scribbling. High-minded stuff occasionally, mostly dirty stuff. Deeply inward, slouched over, intermittently leaning back and laughing, other times frustrated how it reads like other parts I've written. A burst of goofy inspiration splashes on the page, I get happy, lean back again with another laugh or shake my head at some in-joke that's been embedded and whether it will get a laugh. Then I'll wonder what scene this behavior paints:
A gangly-ish, frumpy-ish dude in, as a neighbor described me, "corporate Joe" office regalia, seated solo making a series of pained faces, O faces, smirky faces. Occasional fidgeting and perusal of books, Kindle, reference sheets, notes. More smirking/anguish/maniacal rotations of postures and sounds.
Then I'll look around and see a sprinkling of other hermits seated alone among the crowd. Some of them working intensely on something (usually on a laptop). I tend to write in places with lots of people around. Then I'll glance at the tables with conversations going on. Presumably folks arrived in troupes from nearby workplaces. Maybe they choose each other's company. Maybe some of them were press ganged and wish they could have a patch of solitude away from work.
Photo is of my pen, my notebook (at the time - now FILLED, bay-bee!, like, three journals ago!), and a fragment of pencil lead left behind at the table by a previous occupant.