Witches

It was a Thursday.

I was sitting at a small table, grading papers, and sipping coffee at Starbucks, enjoying my own slice of independence while my daughter was in her acting class, and my son was in therapy.

There were two women to my left, who worked together, but had not had much time to really talk, "I mean really talk" lately.

The water cooler wasn't not safe enough for their kind of exchange.

They talked about everybody they worked with without anything kind to say. Subtly, they cackled around their conversation cauldron, stirring in aged and hairy comments like "too fat," "too slow," "too-oh-my-gawd-I-can't-deal." My coffee got cold and my stomach started to boil. My slice of independence spoiled by the nasty bitterness of a poorly, cooked conversational brew.

Then, just before I was ready to slam my laptop down and spit in their Coach bags, one of the wart-nosed unfurled, "Oh...Tom....I swear he must have Aspergers!" and the other wart-nosed cackled with a rattle that was so loud that I'm sure it started not from her gut, but her regularly pedicured toenails.

Startled and speechless, I ran out a mess, keys and cellphone smashed between my fingertips and laptop chord falling out of my Old Navy tote bag. I was afraid of myself in that moment, worried that I would unfairly burn those witches on their unread and unlearned stakes with the fire in my belly that would likely rise out of my mouth as words that look a lot like flames.

I’ll drink my Starbucks at home, instead.