I was sitting, reading, tranquil, at Le Pain Quot’ on Broome, I had a quiet corner table and a bowl of café au lait, shortly the waiterdude would bring me a tray of open-face avocado-nori sandwiches, and I knew trouble was coming when the girl sat down at the table next to me and ended her cellphone conversation with “Ciao!” I’d seen her come in, alone; I’d seen her sit at another table across the room; I’d seen her switch places and start to walk toward me. And I’d figured it was cool, y’know, she’s on her own, she’ll be quiet. But then—the “ciao” terminating a conversation held in English, which is code for: she worked in Fashion, probably, or Design, in any case one of those fields people like to call “Creative.” In minutes, the friend. Small, with big eyes and big boots. A blue chiffon flower dress over a purple long-sleeved T, and a thick red belt. And then it all came pouring out, the accent part Australian, part German, part Julie Andrews, it all came pouring out—the arsehole brother-in-law, the child born out of wedlock, the genderqueer ex-girlfriend. “I’m too white and skinny for her,” Fashion Creative said. “She likes girls who are mixed, she likes girls from, like, Haiti, Jamaica, Africa, oh, Africa....”