I am sitting in a coffee shop one rainy afternoon opposite the apartment. I send messages home on my phone. Drink the bitter drink that I refuse to put enough sugar in to make palatable. I need a new metro card. $30 for the week. I need airtime too. This rain has spoiled my plans. I wonder about the Bangladeshi woman who has just served me. I wonder how much she makes. Whether she wants to go home or if she likes it here. She looks tired. They all do. She is shouting at the black attendant next to her at the counter.
‘Don’t take your phone out where the cameras can see you. How many times must I tell you?’ she berates as he fiddles with his phone.
Later, she laughs. And I know she means well.
I throw out half my coffee, zip up, push my fur hood on and slip my gloved hands deep into my pockets.
I step out and run through the rain.
