I reach for the door, seven months pregnant. Five skateboarder dudes use it as an opportunity to walk through. One thanks me for holding the door. He also looks at my ass. He looks like a 12-year-old with a heavy mustache and no other discernible facial hair. It strikes me as strange, the facial hair.
In line a 19-year-old chick cuts in front of me. I mention it. She steps back behind, clearly upset by the whole thing. I am not. She’s a punk. I feel like saying, “kids these days”, and also mentioning that I wear less eyeliner than she does, which is obvious in this moment. But what I mean is, I wear less eyeliner always, and I work on porn sets.
I order a tea and an ice water, because nothing beats ice water anymore. After the product has been paid for, and as it is being presented to me in the flesh, she says, “oh my god, do they serve ice water here?”
I tell her no, because I don’t believe her power of deductive reasoning is strong enough to call me a liar.
There is one chair available, sort of. A kid has spread his stuff in a way that makes it a hard read on whether the seat is available. I ask him, “is this chair available or are you saving it.” He looks at me blankly as he tries to comprehend our common language. After a moment he says, “yes.”
Further clarification yields me a chair.
I sit down. I am seven months pregnant. I know I am visible. I just know it. Either way a kid almost sits on me. I speak up. He apologizes. He didn’t see me there, he says. His bangs are in his face. Justin Bieber’s hair has really messed up a lot of people. I ache to tell him that there is a more current, more practical Bieber hairstyle, but I don’t. I don’t want people to know that I know that.
A kid passes me, sees the ice water and double takes. He asks me where I got it. I leave.