“You know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey.” This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. “I’m Venessa” I said, trying to be polite. Architect and Designer,” he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad.
The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam. It’s not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers. He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret. “I’m sorry,” he said (in a thick accent I couldn’t place geographically), “I don’t want to disturb. I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder. Today, to ensure I didn’t spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my son’s day care. As a result, I’ve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manu’s redesign as possible. (It’s not Coronavirus, don’t worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I haven’t been able to work these last couple of days.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. Come Talk To Me.” Because if there’s a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, I’m typically the person it happens to. There’s a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating “I Am Non-Threatening. Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.