There's an odd role-poly young woman who's been showing up at the coffee-house periodically.
She drags her wheelie-bag everywhere, as she fetches things: her coffee, her breakfast, her napkins. Back and forth, the wheels rumbling behind her.
Today, she approaches me to ask if I'll make sure that "nobody touches" her things while she's in the washroom, a few steps away. I guess pulling the thing to the toilet crosses some sort of line.
"If they try, I'll body-tackle them," I assure her gravely.
She accepts this with equal gravity.
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