Who Drinks Lattes, Hides in Thrift Stores?

She finally arrived at her destination after waking up not even knowing where she was. As she shuffled inside clutching the contents of her pockets, she preoccupied herself with the simpering smiles of those polished employees. Employees, that is if you could call the "work" they did employment. A few leathery bills, some change was all she had left from last night's scourge. What a night. She'd been out far too late.

She wondered then how she looked. She'd gone straight there without even glancing in a window's reflection. It must have been obvious that she had a headache. She was sure the pain wrought itself quite clearly on her forehead. Honestly though, did those idiots behind the counter have to look at her like she was some sort of train wreck? That pseudo-sympathy behind the counter was really getting to her. It was in the way they looked at her. Those looks that said "don't worry, sweetie" as if they were experiencing the same headache-mindache-lifeache she was. Well, even if the employees were all hags, at least she could get what she wanted in this store, the likes of which are known nationwide for ubiquity if not fine taste.

Sure, she would be warm as soon as she got what she was looking for, but what size did she want? What size would be big enough to take away the waking chill of the changing seasons?

She counted out her assets. Four one-dollar bills and several coins. She decided to splurge and make her purchase a fancy one.

She pulled the lone Dior coat off the racks, paid the volunteer behind the counter, and left the dingy thrift store.

As the autumn wind picked up, she hugged her "new" purchase, heading off in the direction of the city mission. Even though she'd just woken up, the position of the sun in the sky told her that the soup kitchen would be serving dinner soon. She hoped she would soon recover those four dollars thirty-eight cents.

Five minutes later, a man spilled his Starbucks all over her coat.