Addicted to His Rejected Mate
It's comforting, in a way that sneaks up on you.
The morning ticks by in that familiar rhythm, with steam hissing from the machine, regulars chatting about family chaos, and the saxophone weaving through it all. Dorothy, our lavender-latte loyalist with the gray curls, shuffles in last, peering over the counter at Lulu, who's currently gumming a wooden block like it's gourmet.
"Happy Thanksgiving, dear. Oh, look at her. She's shot up like a weed! Those eyes, though. Stunners. She get 'em from her daddy?"
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