I work at a small neighborhood café
, meaning no one who can't walk to get here knows we even exist. This one girl comes in now and then. Today she ordered a birch beer
and turned on the banker's light at a table. She opens a little, palm-sized notebook
and scribbles numbers in a line, adding subtracting. They looked like this:
$240 for Cornerstone
The reason I know the list that well is because she sat there, motionless, over that page. Staring out the window then back at the page with intensity as though she were engrossed in some fine novel. She did this for about an hour straight.
Numbers must control her life or something.