I’m neurotic, I’ll admit it, notoriously missing nothing, so when a kid walked into Starbucks with a stream of toilet paper peering from his pant leg, you know I had to tell him.
As he stood perusing the pastries appearing transfixed by the array of choices, he must have felt my gaze from across the room. In his 20s with a bipolar glint in his eye, he slowly turned.
I nodded, before conversing with my chin, aimed at his cuff, the paper still flapping like a frenetic white flag. He looked around to see if anyone else saw, before bolting out the door.
Ten minutes later he was back, paperless, as if nothing had happened.
He went back to the pastries while I wrote this essay, never once looking at one other.