I’m at this café and every single person that walks past is just horrendous – like they belong in some macabre sideshow of all the strange outliers of the cultural detritus red state of America – everyone is just so weird and grotesque: parodies of their own selves…
Except this middle aged Hindi man, with a very white daughter. She’s a living doll, reading a book and bored and calling her Mom. Her daddy (a step-father) is a soft-spoken man, and clearly comfortable in the role of father. It’s the only thing I’ve seen all night, all day, in days and days, that gives me Hope with a capitol “H”.
The girl, tired of reading, wraps her blue jacket around her like a blanket, and curls up like a cat in the cafe chair to sleep. Her step-father looks up from his magazines.
“Little one, what are you doing?”