I was in the downtown Starbucks, which I like because it has long tables which allow me to work without feeling that I am hogging a table all to myself which other people would want. (Said tables all have power outlets underneath them, which make them even more attractive.) A young man came in who had been at the bank down the street. He was carrying two plush white ponies.
He saw me looking at them. “They’re cute,” I said. “Want one?” he responded.
After hemming and hawing, I succumbed to his suggestion that a grown woman needed a small stuffed white horse named, according to the tag on its ear, “Snowflake.” “You can call it Starbucks,” he said.
So I now own a white plush pony named “Starbucks.” Yet another sign that I am not growing up, but instead back towards childhood. As if I care about that.