There’s an adorable waitress at the coffee shop next to my house. Benny, who works in the kitchen there, told me that her name is Shikma, that she doesn’t have a boyfriend, and that she’s a fan of recreational drugs. Before she started waiting tables at the coffee shop, I’d never been in the place—not once. But now you can find me perched on a chair every morning. Drinking espresso. Talking to her a little—about things I read in the paper, about the other customers, about cookies. Sometimes I even manage to make her laugh. And when she laughs it does me good.
