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mind and looked at the menu. She forgot why she bothered looking because she wanted a venti, regular coffee and the biggest size, pretty simple, pretty plain, but oh so satisfying. And oh so caffeinating.

Leave room for cream?

Yes. She said, agreeing, harmonizing with the consistent pattern expected of your average customer. Not that she ever put creamer in her coffee before. It was always milk. There was something about the cream that disgusted her especially at a place like Starbucks. Two dollars.

She's out $19 for the day she thought, no more. I'll have to make dinner at home tonight. No more spending today. She gladly wrapped her hands around the familiar white paper cup holding on just before the heat of it got to be only a little too much. She had to set the cup down quickly on the opposite counter where she removed the lid and poured in her average milk. Some splenda too. That tastes good. She wrapped her button-down sweater a little tighter around her body put the cap back on the cup and her jeans made a swishing sound as her converses carried her to the area where the round tables were just waiting for her, her books, and her coffee.

Oh my god there she is Natalie thought.

There is Ms. perfect from earlier today.
She must have come into Starbucks as I was on my way to the hairdresser.

Her exterior mien conveyed none of the tension she was feeling on the inside. She walked past her and sat in the next table, facing the window opposite of her.
She couldn't deal with facing a girl so much more beautiful and probably better than herself and perhaps even be forced to look at her or compare herself to her. No. She'd face the window. If she got bored she could watch the passers-by. [3]
Geena is reading the New Yorker. She has longer hair and artsy glasses. She sees Natalie, tries to catch her eye, and never even catches her name.
She thinks, It's a bad hair cut really. I mean, she can't help it. She just doesn't have great hair. It's too thin and straight to be short unless she wants to look like a lesbian.
Whatever drink she got is a tall size and she is down to the bottom her Dasani water bottle. She has the newspaper under the white paper cup. She may or may not be quite pretentious. She might be boring but she fascinates me enough to talk about her brown shoes and comfy-looking jeans on her upright, slender but healthy body.

She can't be a student here, no way. Too mature, unlike me who scribbles this stuff down in my journal while drowning out the world with

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