Granola

A stout woman, approximately 5’2″, olive skin, short black curly hair. She is dressed in a blue long-sleeved shirt and darker blue slacks. As I approach her position, my mouth full of granola, she says that I seem familiar. I try to chew faster so as to respond, but can only manage a smile and a grunt. The woman reassures me that she is not trying a pick-up-line. By the time I finish chewing, I realize that anything I say would seem late, and awkward. I smile again, and turn to walk away, almost knocking over another woman, who smiles and wishes me a good afternoon. It is still morning.

Granola

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