existential angst in a coffee shop

She was too bored to be nice. I was too tired to be affronted. She took my money and turned away. I took her coffee and sat down somewhere I wouldn't have to listen to any of the other patrons, nor be in danger of falling victim to their conversation. The nearest patron was a girl, probably in her early twenties, with a figure just this side of attractive, pretending to be absorbed in a Dostoevsky novel. I wondered if she wasn't simply hoping to attract some mature intellectual or some pretentious artiste. I didn't wonder for long. There were more important things to worry about. I picked up the newspaper and read more evidence that the world was going to hell.