Evelyn hated the Starbucks downtown. The one on 17th and Court. Hated it with a passion. A fiery, volcanic, acerbic passion. At this moment, she was also particularly annoyed with herself. She had been really good the last couple of weeks, really really good, about getting her order in on the app before she left the house, thus avoiding this hot, smelly mess.
But, this morning, also known as, the morning from hell, there had been a series of mindless catastrophes. It started with a few too many snoozes, three too many if we’re counting, and then it was a completely full trashcan, knocked over and rifled through by Trots, also known as, the dog from hell, and finally, it was a set of keys whose properties, she was certain, were inter-dimensional, possibly residing in the third circle of hell.
The aggregate weight of these mid-morning misfortunes had left her frazzled and bedazzled, and by the time she finally got into her car and headed into her very challenging white-collar job she was at her wit’s end.
And now here she was, sitting in her car like some kind of low-energy, high-stress maid in waiting, taking deep yogic breaths, while the girls inside concocted her Venti Mocha. She could see them clearly and she felt certain that it was her beverage that they were making. The waiting was almost too much to bear.
