I can count 42 people today inside the coffee shop.

A fraction are the “rowing ladies.”

These are women that congregate here, often.

They wear black rowing shorts.

Their hair in ponytails.

They are always loud and lively and I always am reminded that community and exercise — even getting out of bed early and doing something — is good for the soul.

I sometimes fail to prevent speculation.

He looks lonely.

She looks lonely.

They look lonely.

And then I start singing Eleanor Rigby.

Not out loud.

In my head.

“All the lonely people, where to they all come from?

All the lonely people, where do they all belong?”

Coffee’s always a friend.