Julia Gari Weiss
The woman behind me in the coffee line
says, “I can’t handle his micromanaging
bullshit. Don’t get me wrong—I love
my job—but not today.” I turn to see
two tall, black women wearing red lipstick.
“I feel that way every day,” I say,
loud enough for them to hear,
quiet enough for no one else to notice.
Her friend frowns, then beams. “We should’ve
been strippers,” she says, tucking her wallet under arm,
looking up as if contemplating that path.
“Really, we should’ve been strippers.”
Now her friend is laughing. “No,”
her friend says, “No, that’s not our motto.
Don’t make that our motto.”
The barista calls me up. I order my coffee,
they order their coffees, we walk out
of the coffee shop going in opposite directions
heading exactly the same way.