Mark uncrossed his long legs. The patio in the funky Café on Whyte buzzed with undertones of earnest speech and clinking glasses, aromas of exhaust fumes, Arabian coffee and green curry, as well as the rough texture of uncomfortable wooden chairs and nubby cotton tablemats. Spinning amongst the round tables, their server dispensed tulip-shaped copita glasses of whiskey, spherical kisses of wine, and small pottery bowls of Costa Rican ground beans brewed with boiled spring water in a French press. The sun shone warm through the haze of smoke from wildfires hundreds of miles southwest.
“Rowena says you’re looking for a used Yaris,” said Nelson Adebayo, the handsome black artist. “I told her it’s okay she give my number to your woman. We’ll make a trade, man. I tell you where I got the beaut
