She sits at the sushi bar and orders off menu. She appears to watch intently as the chef prepares each order, but it’s just a front for her sake habit. She wants people to think she’s important, a regular; she wants to be seen as flippant and carefree. I’m irritable from the walk. My thoughts are in warrior mode as a result. So I instinctively shape her wants and needs into a victory in my mental war. She is a frizzy old sweater wearing, frump of a gal with sinking middle class written all over her. She would be on her tablet writing or communicating with someone if she was anyone of import. She instead makes pitiful attempts to connect with the sushi chef because she has no one and while we were sitting here she probably just farted.
Now I feel bad that I’ve demolished her in this way. I’ve really taken no prisoners this time. I take a deep breath, readjust my thinking back to the original persona she was seeking. I lift my menu and ponder. I think I’ll have the Volcano Roll … and some sake.