"She came from Croatia or Tunisia or some kind of place with male domination and within three months was addicted to diet soda." I'd be awfully interested to learn the connection, but on noticing your voyeur author checking them out they huddle, giggle, smile, and leave. Not every paragraph comes to a satisfactory conclusion.
Generations at the table. Latinas: grandmother, auntie, thirty-something daughter with baby, college-age daughter without baby. Stylish: ripped jeans, short skirts, hair in topknots, except for college girl in track pants and trainers. Loudly laughing; snapping selfies. The girls' day out.
My barista friend smiles, nods. She's frothing some complicated something I don't understand. It's her umpteenth gig this week. She makes coffees here, is a nanny one town over, house sits, walks dogs, shelves books in the campus library. Between work and study she sleeps about three hours a night. She has dark rings under both eyes and no time for boyfriends. She stays awake by abusing Adderall supplied by a former roommate. For recreation on weekends when she's not working or studying she smokes piles of weed, sometimes in the dorm, sometimes at my house, where I sometimes join her and sometimes don't.
This is one of those weekends. At home I've got edibles, merlot, brandy and gin. She contributes her Adderall to the mix. We're off to the races.