The best part of Jen's morning is the man with the Oldsmobile. It's a car full of swagger in the beige neighborhood, the engine roaring even at 25 mph, the gold paint straight out of the 70s, a relic from her senior year of high school.
Every day, he drives past the coffee shop blaring ZZ Top or Foreigner like the car itself is laughing in the face of the new-age bullshit she has to play for the novelists who spend all day with their Mac books and small coffees, trying to be the next Hemingway.
Jen wants to leap over the counter, pulling her hair out of her ponytail and run to that car. By the time she gets there she'll be wearing a jean jacket with padded shoulders and her hair will be teased beyond all recognition.
The man won't even look at her as she climbs in through the window. He'll just turn up the radio, Sammy Hagar screaming as they drive off towards the past.
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