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Tuesday 200 — #83

Blue skies had co-opted Soho’s sidewalk tables, forcing me indoors for a latte. A sunburned tourist was hunched over the first of three tables near the door. I plopped down two seats away, leaving an empty table between us, and noted the similarities between selecting cafe tables and urinals.

Several pages into my book, Passive Aggression for Dummies, a crimson-clad mannequin plonked two dirty cups and a half-eaten scone onto the unused middle table, then sashayed toward her freshly cleared al fresco accommodation.

The counter wasn’t four feet away, but she could only move things out *her* way. On behalf of busboys everywhere, I hated her.

I finished my chapter (“Grasping Letting Go!”), returned my mug to the counter, and walked outside, tongue clenched between my teeth.

A street kid approached me for change. I handed him some coins. “Wanna earn more?”

“I ain’t queer.”

“Clearly.” I outlined my plan, offering him a tenner. He requested twenty.


Fifteen minutes later, Scruffy McBeggarton tripped out of the coffee shop, spilling his tray of iced mochas and dousing the shrieking scarlet sundress in syrupy karma. Curses flew as he scuttled away, hopping along on his theatrically twisted ankle.

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