Cumaica Cutter

Cumaica Cutter

Cumica Cutter  Grace D’Anca    June, 2018

I economized with a medium coffee and

no pastry no matter how delectable.

Line longish, enough noise and motion to defray eye

contact with my neighbor’s mother in law swishing past

with steaming cups. Chatting with her is gawkish. I don’t

speak to her kids.

Waiting to pay I hear ma’am

can you spare a quarter, polite enough

over my shoulder. I see a youngish man weathered

and appropriately apprehensive about passing his palm indoors.

He leans askew suggesting a tumble into the queue.

Repeating his quarter mantra

softly, politely, hopefully. He wants to buy a cookie

a red velvet looking one. My mouth waters and I say no to the cookie

no to him. He reaches for the cookie, and I wrestle with tattling.

Another arm appears suddenly swooshing a fiver to the barista

A benefactor cutting the line, committing the ultimate kindness.

Then they disappear without a crumb.

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