I’m sitting here in the campus coffeeshop, and two young girls start a conversation while standing right in front of my table. Before I’ve thought about it, I’m watching them. Rapt, like I was meant to turn my head, from you, gangly ponytailed girl in jeans laced up on the sides, to you, bobbed blond girl in teal t-shirt. The alacrity in their gestures and voices; they’re so young. They’ve gotta be freshmen. Maybe nineteen. Then I remember my manners; you can’t just sit and stare at people while they carry on private conversations, (at least not overtly.) And then and then, I think: I’m probably not really offending them at all. When you’re nineteen, your whole life feels on display. It’s something of a given. You assume all the world is watching you at every moment, anyway.