Scene 1: Thursday
I’m at Artisans, where I almost always go if I don’t pack a lunch (ok, more realistically, if Chadoh doesn’t pack a lunch for me). It’s calm and warm and airy and relaxing, the perfect interruption to my often tense work environment.
The barista predicts my order, which is easy. I always get the same thing. I pay and sit at a table near the counter, scroll through the Twitter feed on my phone, and look up when another customer walks up to the counter. He’s middle aged, paunchy, and scarce of hair. Suburbanly soft. We accidentally make eye contact, and I smile slightly so I don’t look like I’m glaring.
Maybe I should be ok with glaring at strangers.
I’m refocused on my phone when I hear him start to talk to the barista about the parking situation in downtown Phoenixville.
“Am I ok to park out there? I saw police signs for something.”
“Oh, you should be fine, this will be quick.”
“Oh well, if my car gets towed, this lovely lady will have to give me a ride back the office.”
I scroll through Twitter like my life depends on it. Not reading, just scrolling to seem mentally occupied.
“What’s that?” The barista didn’t hear him.
Louder then, and looking at me: “This lovely lady will just have to give me a ride back to the office.”
Um, whose office? I have an office, too. Nevermind that I’ve been working hard today to get out an expert report in a rush case for my own employer. I have somewhere to be. I was given standardized tests to qualify for this job. I work hard in a panic attack-inducing atmosphere. I probably worked harder than he did so far today.
My boss is working from Florida this week, so I’m wearing a hoop in my nose, skinny jeans, a giant ’70s-bathrobe-style sweater, and vintage cowboy boots. But really, would a more professional wool skirt have made it better? Probably not.
And haven’t we been spending too much time talking about what she was wearing to deserve such treatment?
It wouldn’t matter what she was wearing. We know that.
Scene 2: Friday
I’m the only female in this coffee shop. One in the corner with a Bible. One behind me working. Two in front of me, talking about writing, anthologizing, and putting together a book. Three around me, starting a business.
One other female walks in, looks cute, buys beer, leaves.
I had tagged along to Ultimo with Chadoh, who was professionally flirting with a couple guys who were trying to recruit him for their start up. I didn’t have to be there, but I thought it seemed fun. “Do you mind if my wife comes along? She’s interested in learning more about web development and start ups.” It’s Bring Your Wife to Work Day!
Later that night, the start-up guys take us to a show that one of their girlfriends is playing. It’s a Chicks with Picks night.
Chicks with Picks. Sometimes I am shocked that I live in a world that still needs Chicks with Picks night, but I’ve been to enough shows in Philly to know that there’s still a need.
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