Quaint pink curtains and tablecloths. White walls. The sugary smell of almonds, pistachio and butterscotch skip around the room, playing hopscotch and Mary Mack.
The display is impressive, I can smell each grain of sugar in these petit cupcakes and dollops of icing.
And then a little girl wails! Mommy won't buy her anymore sweet treats. Bawling-- the girl does an angry-stomp-dance- and then a woman, livid-- storms up to the counter. I said half dozen almond biscotti. I can't take these to my book club. Isn't anyone here competent? Her booming voice has no effect on the lone, tired African-American woman behind the counter. She seems disassociated from the present chaos. The dark circles under her eyes and the surrounding pursed lip wrinkles say everything.
Excuse me, but I've been waiting on a refill of the complimentary coffee for over ten minutes now an uptight gent in a business suit complains. When the woman behind the counter pulls out out a shotgun--
there is silence.
This ain't what I wanted she whimpers just before the weapon gracefully slides under her chin-- --!BAM!--
As I walk out the door, I wonder how long it will take for someone to realize that's not red icing or sprinkles on the cupcakes.