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Funny. I used to hate serving coffee to snarky suburbanites, and, now, I’d give anything to have to remake the same Espressino for the third time because my definition of a “light dusting” of cocoa powder is obviously inadequate. Anything for my paltry paycheck and all the free bagels I can eat. Anything to get out of my head.
April and I are sitting at a corner table at the Free Café, splitting a spinach-stuffed croissant and talking about the steps. It’s the last Friday in September and Erika and Annabelle are at school so I have my sponsor’s undivided attention until 2:30, when she has to leave to pick them up.
“I don’t understand,” I say again. “How is saying I have no power and pretending to believe in some bullshit deity supposed to make me a better person?”
April sighs. No ma
