We are outside for the cupcake truck. Earlier I had visited DC Ballers, a food truck whose hijabed proprietress does not coalesce well with the "ballers" image, and spotted the telltale pink truck in front of the bank. It is common practice at the office to send out a mass email whenever the cupcake truck comes around; I had done so, Ben had seen it and decided that we would discuss the exposure of hiring practices at the Department of Homeland Security at the little plaza behind Cosi, dessert in hand.
Ben goes for the "dive-in" strategy and emerges covered in red velvet cake crumbs. He smiles sheepishly.
"No good way to eat these, is there?"
"Not really." I am sure my lips are coated in chocolate by this point.
A homeless man walks up, says something unintelligible. Ben reacts instinctively and pulls a dollar from his wallet. The man leaves, the rain comes, and we rush inside.
There is a man sitting on one of the benches lining the western side of the street. "Ma'am, some change?" he calls to passersby. "Ma'am? Ma'am?"
I do not carry change. I have never carried change. It annoys me to do so, to have coins littering the bottom of my purse and jingling when I move. I am annoyed now.
"White bitch!" he yells after me.
I'm sure he made a killing that day.