I was at an Apple store recently. It was like every other Apple store: packed like a Spring Breaker’s suitcase. People were everywhere: seated on stools or leaning on rectangle tables to get sales guidance from a representative; or seated in a lounge-like area getting technical support or waiting for it. My son and I were part of the latter group, waiting in the technical-lounge for someone to help fix my schizophrenic-acting iPhone.
There was a White woman, around my age, and her teenage daughter, sitting in one of the “lounge chairs” across from me and my son. The teenage girl had strewn her shoes on the floor and had propped up her bare feet on one of the benches designed for people to sit on.
Instantly, I was annoyed. The navy blue converse, casually kicked off, laying on their rubber sides on…
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