starbuckers

They sit in Starbucks, nursing grandes. They are female, overweight and overbearing, though the latter is a presumption, not a fact. Other couples, groups, talk quietly. Not them. They are best described as adamant. They are not attractive, but neither pretend to be, though they probably would take offense at being judged so, or not so, as the case might be. The one in the multi-colored scarf believes in psychics and has just announced that she has a “study Bible,” whatever that is. The one in the black jeans and bright white sneakers agrees, without even hearing what scarf-lady said, for it’s not important to her that she hears, it’s just important that someone listens, or at least pretends to. Deep down she knows this and it doesn’t bother her. Scarf-lady is pretending to focus and just said these phrases: “ducks in a row” and “the end is coming.” Sneaker woman lowers her voice, leans forward, becomes more involved, because scarf lady is telling a story, now, about a man with an operable brain tumor, whose tumor disappeared. “I get chills when I tell this story,’ she says. They stand now and sneaker woman brings up Jenny’s name and scarf lady says, “You don’t need a man in your life. You and I both know that.” “Amen,” says sneaker woman.