Just a cup of hot water for me, said she.
What for? the chorus, cheerfully, from rafter beams.
I have that Via coffee packet from Starbucks, she explained, hands drawing stick figure pictures in the space between. Casually gesturing toward her things. The chorus transitioned from listening to snickering as she blahblahblahed about baristas and markout coffee, explaining these actions of anomoly to the air. Words on mute floated towards high ceilings. The chorus departs; she remains there.
Surely they could not see. The facade hidden beind her, behind me. A free cup of hot water and no money.