go after him,â I said with a laugh.
âHoney, in all honesty, heâs not worth your time.â
A waiter-bot hovered over to our table. It waited for a moment until it knew we were finished talking. The cylindrical disc with flashing yellow lights around the rim spoke in a small, echoing womanâs voice:
âMay I get you anything else?â
âHow about some more coffee,â Mrs. Newton said. âAnd bring Mina one of those cinnamon crumb cookies.â
âOh, you donât need to do thatââ
âHoney, theyâre wonderful. You need one. Youâre too skinny as it is.â
I laughed and tried arguing with her. I was in pretty darn good shape, if I say so myself, but like most women, my weight had steadily crept up a tad over the last few years; I couldnât get into my college jeans now even if I used lubricant all over my hips to squeeze in them. Good olâ aging metabolism. But being a stocky, well-fed woman of 60, she thought I was full of it and demanded that I eat the damn cookie.
âAll right,â I said, smiling at her determination. âIf you insist. They do sound good.â
âMore coffee and one cinnamon crumb cookie?â the waiter-bot asked after we had paused from our conversation for several seconds.
âThatâs correct,â Mrs. Newton said.
âYes, maâam. Be back in a moment.â
The deli was surprisingly full, considering the hour and the fact that it was very early on a Monday morning. The crowd was eclectic. At one table sat a group of college kids studying for an exam. At another was an old man with bushy white eyebrows. He read something on a hand-held electric device. The door bell chimed, and strolling inside to order were a middle-aged man and woman who had enjoyed a late night of drinking, forgotten their age, and were holding hands, their fingers intertwined.
âDoes Alyssa know youâre her real mother?â I asked Mrs. Doyle.
She sighed. âHoney, I just gave birth to her. Her real mother is the one that raised her. And Iâm okay with that. Thatâs the way it should be. I didnât want to complicate things with my presence. Her parents told her she was adopted, but sheâs never tried to find me. Iâve often rehearsed what Iâd say if she showed up on my doorstep. But if it really happened, I think Iâd be too stunned for words.â
âI can imagine.â
âYou know, half the women that give birth to babies donât raise them. They just serve their sons and daughters as examples of what not to be.â
I couldnât help but think of my own mother. But I wouldnât talk about her tonight. Tonight was about Mrs. Doyle.
âBut the same goes for men,â she said. âPlenty of people in general are too selfish to know real value when itâs staring them in the face, even when itâs an extension of their own blood. I canât tell you how many times I wanted to send my studentsâ parents to boot camp and whip them into shape. Too many times, Iâd ask a student why she flunked my test, and sheâd say she hadnât studied because she had to work because her dad left and her mom was using all the money on herself and there were brothers and sisters to feed. Itâs a disaster. You know, kids need to be kids. Thereâs plenty of time for adulthood when you get there.â
The group of college students erupted into laughter and cheering. They had replaced their calculators and notebooks with playing cards. One of the students, an extroverted and good-looking young man in glasses, playfully punched the shoulder of his taller classmate to his right. The taller man shoved him back and began shuffling the cards.
The bot returned, and two thin metallic hands extended from its sides, one pouring Mrs. Newton more coffee, the other handing me my cookie on a little pink plate. I took a bite, and closed my eyes in