Her dirty, coffee-stained sneakers hit the sidewalk at a fast clip, heel-to-toe until she remembered to walk ball-to-heel, which never lasted long. She was walking home, her tote bag clenched between her left arm and the side of her body. Loose, black exercise pants were cinched tight above her hips, the hems rolled up to expose her pale ankles and lower calves. A magenta, short-sleeved shirt was stuck to her body with sweat and in her right hand she clutched an android phone, white headphones plugged into it.
“’Cause you know it’s my fucking life’s dream to brew your coffee.” She looked both ways at the intersection, tossing her brown bangs out of her face. “Fucking dickhead. The store doesn’t open until seven a.m. which means I don’t have to serve you coffee at six forty-five so you can just suck on my asshole and maybe you’ll find some coffee there.”
She strode across the road, pushing her dark purple aviators higher up on her nose, her matte red lipstick making her mouth stand out. The person on the other end of the phone was speaking as she turned left. Anger scratched at the inside of her skin like a diamond-tipped scribe on glass.
“Exactly. You know there is this thing called a coffee machine, you can buy one your-fucking-self and make your own God damn coffee. Then I won’t have to refuse you entrance to my coffee shop because we’re. Not. Open.”
She made a sharp right, and powered up the small set of stairs, waving at her roommate on the porch, her voice carrying back to her as she thumped up the stairs to their apartment.
“The opening line of my autobiography is going be ‘Yes, Your Honor, I did shoot that man.’”
The door closed behind her and on the front porch her roommate laughed softly and took a sip of her wine.
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