Liz was good at faking. She faked knowing what she was doing all the time. When she walked into a courtroom, she put on her persona of certitude. She remembered her first trial. She hadn’t known anything. She’d barely been able to control her quivering hands, or the quake in her voice.
She often wondered how many people felt like fakes. Did anybody really know what they were doing?
Some days she’d sit in her favorite café, the one with the warm yellow walls, the worn hardwood floors, and the wide open windows and just watch the people reading, writing, staring at their iPhones. And the barista working her magic behind the counter. Did any of these people really know what they were doing? The only one Liz felt pretty sure about was the barista. There was something satisfying about watching her make the perfect cappuccino.
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I've been so enjoying getting to read this story again! Lots of terrific installments this week. What I liked about this one is the notion that the barista is the only one who knows what she's doing. You perfectly describe a feeling I think we've all had. And once again, you make us like - and care about - Liz. Great job!
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