With five minutes left in my back pocket, I approach you (all superficial smiles and long underwear). This is the cute one, in all white, and she reminds me of some child I saw in a coffee shop in my hometown, her mother all Triple White Out, mostly foam. Everyone loves the coffee as much as Clint Eastwood loves the snarl.
I'm almost late, and I feel like the White Rabbit without the vest. MY heart is pounding, MY stomach is growling and wants more than coffee, dark juices sans vitamins. I am the typical polite one; the cute one in all white looks like me only from a different time, one with imaginary tea instead of coffee, with principles instead of obligations.
I'm late, and yet I'm always the first one there anyway. Show me, Mary, how does it go?
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