"Why, nothing's wrong. We sit here chatting. We're sipping
mocha (each of us) and talking about happy bittersweet things
(we're just being that way) on a chilly winter afternoon.
But Wendy (that's not her real name), with a look
as open as the Connecticut hills pops into that burrow again,
tossing a lithe mane over her freckled nude shoulder.
"My sweet Jesus, I know she is. But look at that
woman dressed in winter blacks sitting across from me. She's
pretending she's a demure/furry lady/child in a Cambridge
cafe. Listen to her. 'Another mocha?' I reach for my money.
'I'll buy,' she insists, sauntering over to the counter. See
what I'm up against? So, reader, I put it to you. What can
I do from the fringe?