Ten people are waiting in line at a Starbucks. There are no children around. Five people are waiting for regular coffees of various sizes. None of them are saying anything, but their faces read the same: Where is my coffee? When I don’t have my morning coffee, I look like this. Like I am ready to eat someone’s face.
There is one barista filling the coffee cups, and he seems frazzled. He looks at the men and women—the men and women who look like they’re going to eat his face at any moment, and decides to try to fill as multiple orders at once. He carries five hot drinks to the register, and before he can set them down, the hands all come at once, and he drops the drinks—piping hot coffee splashing on three of the five customers. The barista rushes to get a towel.
I reach into my bag for my SHOUT Wipes to Go. “Here,” I say trying to channel Jolie. “Keep dabbing at it, and don’t let it dry.”
Something happens then. We laugh. The drinks are replaced. Nobody gets their face eaten. Nobody sues (I think). Perhaps because there are no children around.