A woman with enough plastic surgery to make her eligible for Mount Rushmore, is in Starbucks on her phone.
As I’m pouring milk I hear her say, “I don’t know about Halloween. Should he be a clown or a pirate. I can’t decide. He refuses to wear a mask so, there’s no way he’s going as Trump or Hamilton, which is so disappointing.”
She ends her call as I’m about to leave so I say, “Must be fun having a son to dress up.”
Her brows shoot up like rockets.
“Son?” She thinks for a minute. “Oh, I was referring to Henry, my English bulldog.”