Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
But all that apple smushing practice gave me the strength to elbow that guy out of the way, so perhaps it wasn’t in vain, after all. Mom would be equally horrified at my lack of manners and proud that I’m using the lessons she’d taught me for something, considering I haven’t been to a festival in five years.
“Coming through!” I call out in warning to another throng of people ahead. To their credit, they do glance over their shoulders and make a hole for me to dive through.
“Thanks!” I shout as I run down the street, aiming to make the next light crossing too. The crossing light is a flashing stop hand, but I risk it with a wave at the line of cars sitting there as though they’re contemplating hitting the gas before they get a green. A courier gambles with me, going the opposite direction and shooting me a wink as we pass.
“Almost there,” I tell myself, thankful that I can see the sign for my first destination ahead. I don’t actually know the official name of the café I frequent every morning for Nora’s mandatory caffeine fix. The sign simply says Coffee, and the baristas wear whatever wrinkled shirt they pulled from the floor after rolling out of bed at five A.M.
But they make the strongest Americano in a ten-block radius, and without it, Nora goes into withdrawal by ten.
Inside, a blend of coffee, cinnamon, and spice hits my nostrils, and I breathe in deeply, hoping it’ll hit my veins through my lungs. Luckily, the line isn’t too bad this morning and I stand in the back, tapping my foot and wiggling my hips to a tune only I can hear. It basically sounds like ‘hurry, hurry, hurry . . . I need to hurry’ and probably makes me look like I need to pee, but no one pays me any mind. If it’s one thing people in New York City know, it’s to mind your own business. If someone wants to break out into a full-blown tap dance Broadway number, complete with striptease in the middle of the morning coffee rush hour, you keep your head down, not seeing a thing, and your hand on your bag.
“Hey, Carrot Top! I’ve got your order going over here!” a friendly voice calls. There’s no way she’s speaking to anyone but me, so I step out of line and head to the end of the bar.
“Hey, Claire! Thanks,” I say gratefully as I mentally count the number of minutes she’s saved me. Claire is my angel this morning, though she’s wearing a cropped band shirt that I think once said Dirt Puppies, ripped black jeans that hang low on her hips, and smudged eyeliner that’s definitely a few days old. Punk rock is too soft for Claire.
Claire shrugs, her hands never stopping their brisk, efficient movements as she methodically mixes up her magical concoctions. It looks like she’s working on my latte. “No worries. I thought Clay would want extra whip today. That’s why he’s got a dome lid this time.”
I glance at the tray of drinks she’s indicating and see that she’s done my co-worker Clay a favor with a super generous glob of whipped cream that’s piled up well beyond the hole in the top of the dome. “You know I’m going to have to watch him lick that up like a dog with a pup cup, right? It’ll be downright obscene, and that’s before he tries to irk me by suggesting I could learn a thing or two from him.”
Claire laughs, well aware of Clay’s bluntness. She’s also aware that he’s not wrong. I could definitely learn something from Clay, who takes full advantage of the city and all its offerings, going to art gallery openings, dancing at various nightclubs, and checking out new restaurants, all with a different guy nearly each outing.
Meanwhile, I go from work with Nora to my teeny-tiny studio apartment, where one month’s rent is about as much as Mom’s mortgage for six months, and work on my own fashion projects.
A social life? What’s that? The sum total of my social interaction is my morning conversation with Claire as I pick up our coffee order.
“Maybe see if Clay would put that tongue to use on you,” Claire suggests playfully, and a shiver works its way through my body, one I exaggerate for effect.
“Definitely not. I’m not his type, and he’s not mine.”
Truth be told, I’m not sure what my type is. I’ve dated, though infrequently. Guys simply never held as much interest for me as my work, nor do they usually understand the passion that I feel for it. A date once actually told me that ‘no one cares what you wear, only how you look when naked.’
He most definitely never got the chance to find out.