She’s pretty hot, but I’ve also heard she’s a temperamental bitch.
She wants everyone to treat her like the Queen of Sheba. She’s also into Wicca. So, you know, she’s like that.
Evie rolled out of bed at some god-forsaken hour. She works the brunch shift at Stella’s on Saturdays. I wake up, rub my face.
I have a meeting today with a micro-baker who can somehow afford to make a living as a micro-baker. Her name is Deirdre and she’s a friend of a friend, my friend Andy.
He says that Deirdre’s deep-fried banana rolls are a big fucking deal. “These rolls are changing lives, man, she’s a batshit crazy baking witch. She helped organize a climate protest last summer, too. This is how the next revolution begins, dude, with an elongated-pastry-wielding social justice warrior witch.”
I throw on a pair of skinny chords and a T-shirt, one I got with Evie at The Strokes show in Toronto in the early aughts.
I fix my usual breakfast of eggs, toast, coffee with milk, and scroll through…