The dark-haired man stood six feet away from me, but his eyes urged me to come closer. It had been days—no, more than a week—since I had gotten any.
I wanted it so badly. My mouth was dry; I felt almost dizzy. He nodded, as if daring me to ask. And before I knew it, I had ordered a large, iced, half-caf, whole milk, churro-flavored latte.
With tip, it was seven dollars.Even though nothing brings me more joy than exchanging money for decorative steamed milk, my coffee purchase felt a little nightmarish to me, too.
Trying to figure out how to shop during is so fraught I wasn’t sure if I was holding a cup of drinkable virus, a fun indulgence, a stake in a teetering local business, or an oversized portion of my shrinking savings.Wrapped up in.