“You working? Ain’t that child labor?” he winks. The flaking skin around his eyes crinkles.
She would like to ignore him, but that’s not how the world works when you’re an 18-year-old kid trying to write at Starbucks between shifts.
“It’s an autobiography,” she sighs as she watches the foam melt like clean snow falling on the road slush that spatters out behind a snowplow.
Focus. She needs to write one more page before picking up the baby from her mama.