The Starbucks at Piper Glen is always crowded at this time of the day. All of these mid-day squatters, sipping their fraps or their refreshers, shouldn’t they have somewhere else to be, like, I don’t know…work, perhaps? Of course, I’m just as guilty. I can squeeze in a few hours of “work” at the Starbucks, sipping coffee, poaching their wi-fi, and squatting like the rest of the midday slackers.
I bus my own table, because the woman – sporting some massive wrap-around Fendi sunglasses – sitting at the table before me was too preoccupied with looking awesome to clean her mess. But she only left what looked like a scrap of paper on the table. When I looked, before giving in to the impulse of crumbling the paper up, I noticed it wasn’t a scrap of paper, but a small envelope. It was addressed to “David.” I scanned the room once more, wondering if Fendi Sunglasses would return for her lost letter, but no. A few minutes passes, and I couldn’t resist the urge.
Forgive me. I lied. The baby isn’t yours.”
Then who’s baby is it, Fendi Sunglasses? I had questions needing answers.
Maybe the baby’s daddy is a scumbag who should never see the light of day, no less his child. David might make a better father, even if the child isn’t biologically his.
Perhaps she came to her sense and realized, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Or maybe Fendi Sunglasses was taking part in some writing prompt, complete with stationary.
I put the letter back into the envelope, then tore it into thin strips of scrap, laying the scrap across the table like strips of bacon on a frying pan. It’s what Fendi Sunglasses would have wanted to do, anyway.