As I sink into the squishy cushions of a cocoa-skinned sofa chair, my throat recovers from chai latte scaldings caused by the impatience of my greedy gut.
To my left, a dow-eyed Becky shimmies out a slew of nonsensical words to her eager-eared, rich-bitch counterpart. They notice the stare I don’t try to hide, but quickly return to their previous insipid ramblings.
Costumed in war hues and city dirt, I cross my legs and display a messy manicure over boyish hands. Overt femininity has never been a forte of mine, but I embrace the few specs of sex appeal I own and keep it moving.
10:51pm
A mellow jazz session is silenced by the sweepings of brooms and slidings of chairs. Size 0 jeans are pulled up against mannequin frames as my two Beckys walk their half full tummies to the door.
I bid adieu to the sweet aroma of steamed milk and evening joe.
Time to head home Mrs. Bucks, the Brooklyn air awaits me.