I pull the door open to Starbucks and walk in. The line is long. Infinity of Ss. I stand there, think about my day, the clients I need to call, the ones who need to call me, pull out a mirror and check my makeup, touch up my hair.
I stare at the glass case filled with doughnuts and cakes. In my line of work I can’t afford to indulge. Only coffee and a little cream, no sugar, is all I ever purchase.
I smile at the young man behind the counter as he hands me my change, then grab my coffee and search for a seat. I spot one. There is a woman at the table, 50ish I’d say, but put together nicely, a book in her hand.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask.
“No, sweety,” she says. “Go ahead.” She’s reading one of those cheesy romance novels. I smile and thank her.
My phone rings. It’s a client. “Hello there,” I say. “Yes…Okay…Sure…Same time…Same type of service…Sounds great…Okay, then…See you tonight…Okay…Bye.”
“Excuse me,” the woman says.
“Yes,” I say.
“I don’t mean to pry, sweety, but there’re other ways to make money.”
I laugh. “Lady— ummm…ahem…ahem…Excuse me. Ma’am, what are you thinking? That I’m a prostitute? No f…, I mean, no way. I wouldn’t do that. Ever.”
“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what is it that you do?”