“I’ll take the Bluebell Blueberry Bomberama,” I tell Cheri, directing my attention to a decision I can control. It’s vegan and bran, more of a refueling puck than sweet treat, but thanks to Loni’s selfish toddler, it’s the only muffin left except for cardamom squash. Which is also bran.
As I mentally resign myself to a healthy dose of insoluble fiber, a blinding flash of light explodes to my left. Stars dance in my eyes for several seconds and then slowly fade away to reveal a small man wearing a Pink Panther-esque trench coat and trilby hat. “Smile, beautiful.”
I automatically obey with a reflexive grin that falls off right away, because what the fuck? He takes another picture, then a tsunami of clicks wash over me as his camera snaps and the flash pings in rapid succession. I squeeze my eyes shut and throw up my arms, holding the muffin in front of my face as protection.
Cheri chucks her dirty dishcloth at the photographer, who yelps indignantly when it lands smack on his chest, covering his raincoat with coffee grounds.
“Yo, Ansel Adams. Get the hell out of my store and stop hounding my customers. You’re trespassing.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but she threateningly grabs a pot of freshly brewed coffee and leans over the counter as if daring him to mouth off. With an angry shrug, he blows me a kiss and saunters out.
I turn to Cheri. “Ansel Adams?”
She puts down the pot and hands over my latte with a half-turned smile. “Couldn’t think of another photographer.”
“Ansel Adams did landscapes, didn’t he? Not people?”
“Like I said. Couldn’t think of another one. Also, that’s very judgmental talk coming from a woman who used a muffin as a shield.”
I bristle. “He surprised me.”
“Right.” Safe in her victory, Cheri complacently pats her magenta curls. “What was that even about? You caught up in some naughty scandal?”
Deeply skeptical, I check my phone. The only alert is a notification from LifePlanX about the second load of laundry I should be doing. “Nope.”
“Huh. Must have mistaken you for someone else. Makes sense—there’s always a lot of filming going on in Toronto. Oh, speaking of, did I tell you I saw Keanu Reeves last week?” She wipes the counter with passionate strokes. “What a god. There’s no one else as gorgeous as him around here.”
“Uh, Cheri?” It’s Loni, who is packing Little Loniette into her stroller as her wife tidies the table. “Outside.” She points.
We look out the front window. “Shit,” I say. “There are two of them.” Inspector-turned-paparazzo Clouseau now has a buddy standing with him outside the café. They’re both sporting seriously intense cameras around their necks and gesturing wildly.
“Quick. Go out the back way,” Cheri advises in a hiss.
This is bizarre and not on my to-do list. I hesitate, wondering who on earth they think I am, before I duck into the hall and sneak out, feeling pleasantly important. The buzz of acting like a celebrity lasts until I step right into an oil-slicked puddle that smells like raccoon pee. Damn it. There’s a patch of grass at the end of the alley, so I walk over and wipe my shoe. Once reasonably clean, I sip my latte as I decide what to do. I faked being sick to get out of work so I could meet the lawyer, which means there’s no need to go to the office. That I’m Todd-free the rest of the day lightens my mood.
I tap through my phone to the LifePlanX app. According to my schedule, I’m due to go home and spend some time doing chores. Plan the work and work the plan, that’s the saying. I wish it were always that easy, though.
I think I’ve tried every system available to humanity that’s supposed to get your life under control, but none of them have helped. My bullet journal bit the dust last winter, when I finally accepted Mom’s dementia was too bad for her to live alone. It was a beautiful notebook full of carefully hand-drawn calendars and lists, which slowly devolved into roughly scribbled pages of names and phone numbers in different color inks, a written microcosm of my resentful journey through the healthcare system.
Once Mom had been moved to Glen Lake, I put that notebook aside and turned to an award-winning, minimalist online tasker. That was abandoned five months ago, when checking through the previous weeks, I finally realized that my to-do lists confirmed what I had only dimly suspected up until then—that I was getting assigned my own projects less and less in favor of taking on tasks for others…or for one other person in particular. Todd, my marketing department manager, was blocking my advancement by giving my projects to his slimy protégé, Brent.