It my top dresser drawer live a layer of delicate, pretty bras that have been undisurbed for the past two-and-a-half years. Shoved in with them, in heavy rotation are taupe-colored, utilitarian nursing bras. They are like pushy subway passengers taking seats that are clearly too small for them.
A barista with a Russian accent asks me to repeat my order. She’s staring at my necklace, which is a tiny pair of scissors.
“I don’t even know what you said, I was looking at your necklace. I just love scissors.”
These remind me of shin guards, or something that belongs in Beetlejuice.