She ordered a small tea and one of my famous biscuits- that’s all. But it meant a lot to me.

Under five pounds. Maybe two.

I couldn’t quite remember, I couldn’t quite grasp the situation entirely. God.

How did I not see it? How could I be so stupid.

The lack of wrinkles on her face which I thought were out of beauty- were actually dressed up as the devil in disguise. Her smile was robbing me blind.

The smoothed out dress she was wearing (which hugged her tight) made the facade even worse as it was plated with an black and white striped knitted cardigan. Making her seem.. innocent. Making her seem cute and vulnerable.

Yet, I look back and see it all clearly. Too clearly.

When she had dropped her favourite book on the floor and I had picked it up.- she had slipped my card. When she talked to me while I was making my famous coffee she sank low on to the counter, looking mesmerised. She had let her friends slide through the back. When she has stayed from 9am to 4pm she had been on her computer writing her endearing fantasy book. She had my layout open, creating and managing her orchestra, pulling lies out of the air like they were already elements that just had to be found. She lied. She cheated. And in the end she didn’t even pay her own measly check.

As I slip my jacket on, I see the memories replaying in my head. Sliding and moving, replaying and replaying. The slight shove she gave mrs jawoski because she knew that horrid girl was up to something. The look in her eyes, the shift in her hands behind her back and the look away. The look away because she knew what she was doing.

Bankruptcy and murder. By bankrupting me, I do not survive.

As I lock up my once cosy, soft-spot-cafe, I find myself smiling. Giving it one more look of fatefulness that someday I will find something like this again. But for now, I go home.

I burn my home. I splatter blood all over my “home”.

It took me 10 years to set up that cafe. My longest work ever.

To set up a life - totally new - that people don’t suspect anything. That people don’t know what goes on in the back. That people don’t know who I really am or what I have done. There is a reason, I don’t employ any other person. A reason I don’t get to close.

My business was going on perfectly, but she ruined it! She ruined it in one day! This was supposed to be the last one.

Calm down, stop hammering so hard.

But as I finish up the last of my “death” (poor Bob, his wife will have a surprise in the morning) and light my building in a violent, surging fire, I walk out, knowing I have to do it all again.

I guess I was ready to start again. To kill again. I guess it is time for the fun bit. Although, it is a shame that my new name is Bob. It’s just so boring.

However, I’ve got on the bus. Without any hesitation. I know she’s watching.

I will she her again. But this time I’m ready. See you soon. Next time, it won’t be so easy.

He wasn’t suspicious about it, nor was he concerned or unaware of his stealing. He sat down before and drank his coffee at a table, he was working on his computer and talked to someone on his phone. His fresh, clean suit and gleaming sliver watch announced enough about his wealth, though he did look very young. Yet, I could tell there was a slight hint of arrogance when he ordered his black coffee. He didn’t obtain any eye contact or “thank you” or “have a a nice day”. He thought walking off would not be noticed, but he was wrong.

He left the cafe around 3:00pm. It is now 3:15pm, he couldn’t have gotten very far. “I’ll be back soon!” I tell my coworkers. And then I begin my quest.

I first start to look around at the business court, we’re many wealthy business are located. I scan people, but remember to occasionally leave my head down. I pull out my phone to check the time when I walk in a solid wall, no, a man, him.

I look up, embarrassed, but happy. I found him. “Hello, sir.” He raises his eyebrows. “No apology?” He says firmly. “Yeah, don’t keep me waiting.” I snap back. He smiles. “I recognize you, barista.” “I recognize you, thief.” His smile widens. “So you’ve caught me.” I look into his green eyes and ask, “Why? You clearly have to money to buy a simple six dollar coffee.” “Yes, and clearly you are very naive. Did you ever think about why I did it?” Panic hit me. What was he saying? He continued, “It seems, barista, you fell perfectly into my trap.” Before fear could seize me, darkness wrapped around me and I was out.

In a quaint little town, nestled amidst rolling hills and blooming meadows, there stood a cozy café called “Serenity Brews.” Owned by a compassionate woman named Lily, the café was known not only for its delicious food and aromatic brews but also for the warmth and love that emanated from its walls.

On a sunny morning, as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, Lily noticed a customer sitting alone at a corner table. He was a disheveled man with tired eyes, wearing worn-out clothes that seemed to tell a story of hardship. Lily approached him with a smile, ready to offer her comforting presence and a warm cup of coffee.

As the man enjoyed his meal, Lily couldn’t help but notice a sadness that lingered in his eyes. When the time came for him to pay the bill, he quietly slipped out of the café, leaving behind his untouched plate and an unpaid tab. Concerned for the man, Lily decided to follow him, driven by a curiosity to understand his story.

She trailed him through winding streets and quiet alleys until she reached a humble cottage on the outskirts of town. Peering through a window, Lily saw the man gently tending to an elderly woman lying in bed, her face pale and fragile. It was then that she realized the man had left the café to bring food to his sick mother.

Touched by the man’s selflessness, Lily’s heart swelled with compassion. She approached the cottage and knocked softly on the door. The man opened it, surprise and worry etched on his face.

“I couldn’t help but notice you left without paying your bill,” Lily said, her voice filled with kindness. “But I also saw the love and care you have for your mother. Please, allow me to help.”

The man, named Thomas, hesitated for a moment before inviting Lily inside. As she stepped into the cottage, a magical aura seemed to envelop them. Lily discovered that Thomas’s mother, Margaret, had fallen gravely ill, and they were struggling to make ends meet.

Touched by their plight, Lily offered her assistance. She rallied the community, spreading the word about Margaret’s illness and organizing a fundraiser at the café. People from all walks of life came together, donating their time, money, and resources to support Thomas and Margaret.

As the days passed, the café transformed into a hub of love and humanity. The community rallied around Thomas and Margaret, providing not only financial aid but also emotional support. Lily and her team worked tirelessly, preparing meals for Margaret and offering a comforting space for Thomas to find solace.

In this magical tale of love and humanity, Lily’s café became more than just a place to enjoy a cup of coffee. It became a symbol of hope, a testament to the power of compassion and the strength of a community united by love. With each passing day, Margaret’s health improved, and Thomas found solace knowing that he was not alone in his struggle.

In the end, Lily’s act of kindness not only helped Thomas and Margaret but also brought the community closer together. Serenity Brews became a beacon of light, reminding everyone that in times of hardship, love and compassion can work wonders, creating a world filled with magic and humanity.

I own a huge ass fuckin cafe. I’m kind of a bad boy but who gives a shit. Anyways, this crazy hot chick came in earlier today and she didn’t pay so I ran after her. I found her on a Ferris wheel and I climbed up that motherfucker and climbed into this chicks seat or booth or whatever the fuck you call the spot you sit in on a Ferris. Holy smokes she was crazy hot from far away but even more crazier hot from up close. I’m a smooth ass guy so I charmed her right off the bat, I said “ayyyy you can keep da coffee baby, supermodels drink free, Badabing badaboom Hubba Hubba look at chu, lookin all pretty and gorgeous and shit. She liked it maybe, I dunno. Next thing I know we are smoochin and I gots da worlds biggest stiffy and I’m in fuckin love or some shit. So we smooch a bit and then, the fuckin Ferris wheel breaks down. We are fuckin trapped all the way at the top for 4 fuckin days straight. We learn about each other and shit, normally I don’t like talkin cuz it’s kinda gay but this broad could talk good and her voice was good too. I gave her my grandmas necklace cause one time I seen a guy do that in a movie and the broad went crazy. I got a bit of vodka on me so we do some drinkin and bro, the sparks was fuckin flyin like Cupid or some shit. Next thing I know we are married bro, swear to god. I’m all like, dude this is fuckin crazy, and she’s all happy and shit so we do sex. And that’s the story about how I met my big booby cute face.

The woman in the purple hat was my most loyal customer. She ordered her usual herbal tea and almond croissant daily. It came out to $8 even and I'd eventually allow her to leave the money under the plate, as she was in a rush most days.

One day the money wasn't under the plate. The shop hadn't been doing well, but I was more concerned with purple hat lady and her seemingly unusual behavior. I asked the surrounding shops if they'd seen purple hat lady and if they had, what general direction she goes to proceed on with her day. Just as I turned the corner, I spotted the hat! I picked up my pace to a speed walk and when I caught up to her I asked if she were alright. I prefaced that I wasn't upset about the money, just concerned with the sudden change.

She said she was fine, but it had been a while since she felt cared for. She spent days wondering how alone she was in the world with no family or friends. We were both feeling vulnerable. Then I began to tell her how I felt lonely most days, my main comfort and connection to the world being the satisfied customers at my cafe. She went silent and I asked her what she was thinking. She said sorry for dashing without paying and introduced herself as Violetta. I asked her about her hat and we no longer felt lonely.

I knew the kind of kid he was as soon as he entered my coffee shop. Obnoxious. Loud. Cocky. The kind of kid you’d cross the street to avoid, not because you were scared of them but because you don’t need the hassle.

“Got any muffins?” he demanded while stood in front of a display of six different varieties of muffin - homemade of course.

I waved at the selection under his nose. “Of course, sir,” I said, giving my best ultra-polite, customer-is-always-right patter. “We have vanilla, chocolate chip, double chocolate, blueberry, cranberry, and caramel surprise.”

He nodded, surveying my wares. “One of each. Not cranberry, though. That’s rank. Gimme another double chocolate.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, loading his choices into a cake box. “That’ll be eighteen pounds, please”

The teen jerked his head up, indicating the drinks fridge behind me. “Coke.”

I placed the cake box on the counter and turned to retrieve his drink. I knew I shouldn’t have done it.

As I turned back I just caught sight of a Reebok classic trainer trailing out of the door at speed, the counter lacking muffin box and money.

“Hey!” I yelled, darting around the counter and leaping for the door.

Out on the street. The dark clouds that had been threatening all morning chose that moment to fulfill their purpose, and cold, heavy drops beat onto dry concrete. The teens feet pounded the concrete too as he made his escape south.

I launched myself after him, fueled by a small lifetime of local kids trying to rip me off. Not this time.

The kid turned the corner, disappearing from view. I sped up, determined not to lose him.

As I rounded the corner, he was lost in a sea of people, a queue snaking out of the bookstore - a book signing today. “Crap!” I scanned the street, looking, hoping for any sign, trying to see anything through a rapidly expanding barrier of unfurling umbrellas.

Nothing.

No use.

Then a face watching me. The kid, peering over a car on the other side of the road. “You! Wait!” I cried out.

The kid darted away, glancing back at me every few seconds as I tried to keep pace. The kid was fast, faster then I was, at least in a flat sprint. But he was measuring his pace, keeping ahead of me and making sure he kept something in reserve.

He turned into a park, the open green space taking over the diesel-stained masonry of the city. The kid jumped and juked as he ran over the hill - nimbly avoiding the dog mess left by inconsiderate owners. I was not so lucky, my slick shoes skidding on filth. No matter, I had to catch him.

At the end of the park he vaulted a low wall, I clambering breathlessly over a few seconds later. Despite the delay I was still keeping up, like he wanted me to go with him.

That was it! He wanted me to follow him, wanted me out of the shop. No doubt his accomplices were raiding the cafe now, loading up on sweet treats and the contents of the register. I was almost impressed with his ingenuity.

All the more reason to catch him.

He turned again, this time heading for a block of flats. Of course the little scumbag lived here. He disappeared up a passageway, re-emerging on the stairs. I followed, channeling my anger into my burning thighs as I ascended.

On the fourth floor he turned off the steps, flying down to a blue wooden door at the end of the row. A dead end. I had him.

I slowed, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere, my lungs protesting and preventing any kind of speech. As I stepped towards him, he looked to the door next to him, banging hard on it with his fist. He was panicked, cornered, looking for an escape and knowing he had none.

“Come on, hand them over,” I managed to squeeze out. The teen reached back to something in his back pocket. I froze. A knife? Six muffins were not worth dying for. I raised my hands defensively.

The boy whipped his hand back and thrust it forward…

A twenty pound note.

“Here you are, mate.”

I stared at the folded note in his hand. Was this a trick?

The door next to him swung open. A woman, about my age, stepped out. “Did you forget your key again?” She turned to me, looked at my apron, sweating forehead, soaked hair and clothes. “Who’s this? What did you do now?”

She looked familiar but couldn’t place her face.

The kid nodded to the woman. “This is my mum. Her name’s Laura. Laura Kensington.”

Laura Kensington. Of course! We had been in school together, had hung around together a few times until she was pulled out of school suddenly. Rumour was that she had gotten pregnant. By the age of the boy, I quickly calculated that the rumours were probably true.

The boy looked back to his mum. “I told I would find him for you, mum,” he said, handing her the box of muffins. “Happy birthday.”

Laura smiled that same beaming smile I knew from all those years ago. I didn’t realise until now just how much I had missed it.

That was a bloody smart kid.

Egg white on whole grain bagel, cup of coffee, mostly cream. She comes in three times a week and gets the same thing. She sits alone in the same corner table by the window, scrolling on her phone. She has a little smile while she's looking at it, so I'm guessing she's carrying one of those harmless torches for someone that will never go beyond words. I decide for myself she must be an artist. Those harmless word-loves are catnip to an artist. Sometimes, she has a smear of paint over her left eye, confirming my suspicions. Always a different color, her clothes the delightful mismatch of someone who likes colors and is not for public consumption. I always smile at her. She looks up sometimes and smiles back; she has astonishing gray eyes, the color of the ocean under a bank of clouds. Her mouth wide and generous. I can't help it. I compare her. Claudia's mouth had been small, precise, the mouth of an actuary, not a dreamer. I might have carried on in this fashion, smiling here and there but ignoring her, if she hadn't left without paying her bill. It was raining, one of those cold, driving rains that invite only the loneliest and most persistent. It's the same routine: the egg-white bagel, the smear of paint above her left eye is bright red today, the phone, the absent-minded smiles, except today, after about fifteen minutes, she stands up, bagel untouched and wanders dreamily out the door. If I hadn't been watching her with her phone, I would've thought she was sleepwalking. My first instinct is to ignore it. After all, what's one bagel? Claudia would have been furious. Her principles, ironclad, wouldn't've stood for it, to say nothing of the precedent it would set. Claudia's castigations in my head, I wander over to her table. Next to her perfectly arranged breakfast, she's left her phone. I promise I have scruples. Clchudia would say otherwise, say what I have is too much imagination. All this to say, I thought twice before I picked it up, but I didn't think that hard the second time. I notice she's had the presence of mind to take her raincoat, her hat, I think it was yellow. It's that that makes me pick up her phone. That she clearly wanted to go into the rain without paying me, leaving her little torch behind. She hasn't locked it. She rchally should have, Claudia chides me, Look, someone's snooping through it. When Claudia finally had enough and left, my good sense walked out, too, but so did the fear. There's a certain tightness in your chest that comes from knowing you're always a breath away from your next mistake. I was right. Her phone is full to bursting with texts. Banal ones for an artist. No declarations of love. Nothing the least bit what Claudia would call "untoward." But I know what's there. When you're both a man and a dreamer, pouring love into tiny sentences is your native language. "Do you want coffee?" "I'm already at Vie En Rose." "Egg white bagel again?" "How did you know?" "Lucky guess." (The emoji for crying with laughter. A nice touch, I thought.) "Aren't you at work?" "Sick." "No, you're not." (a slight-smile this time. Good choice on her part. Nothing excessive. No tears of joy for her.) "Sick of being in here. They're doing construction right above my office. Going to the park." "In the rain?" "They have a vailion." "The one on Twenty-Second? I watch birds there." "Of course you do."

I might have stood there forever, reading their microscopic love not speaking itself on that tiny screen had Penny the hostess not thrown a pencil at my head. "What the hell, Will? Put that down." I straighten up. I know how it looks. I tell myself I'm going to return it to her. That's a much better story than "I've forgotten what being in love sounds like and I have questions." I grab a brown raincoat two sizes too large off the peg. I've lost a lot of weight since Claudia, not in a good way. The phone in the pocket, pings again. I can help it, but I won't. "You should come." it says. Out on the pavement, I can barely see the top of her yellow hat at the bus stop, weaving in and out of the crowd of commuters and desperate people. I lull my hood up and cross the street at a clip. Not thinking, bordering on creepy, I should stop. I should put her phone in lost and found, badger her about the bill when she comes to get it.
She hears me before she sees me. That's what happens when you forget rain boots and your socks are squelching when you move. Her yellow-hatted head snaps around. "Shit." she says. It's the first time I've heard her speak. An odd voice, on the lower side, tending toward contralto. I expected an artistic soprano, with laughter. "I forgot to pay for my bagel." she continues, "Shit, I'm sorry, here." She digs around in her purse (bright pink clamshell) and comes up with a couple of bills, handing them to me. "It's not..." Oh, of course, now, I have no voice. "It's not your bill. You...uh...you left your phone?" The end a question. "Double shit." she laughs, and now I understand why a perfectly sane man is birdwatching on Twenty-Second Street in the pouring rain right now. "Here." I take it out of my pocket, "I...it's none of my business, but you're going to meet him, aren't you?" "You didn't just tell me you read my texts and you have some feedback, right? That's not what you just said. Because that is the creepiest thing I've heard all day." Her voice brooks no nonsense, but not like Claudia's. There's an affection in hers. She's puzzled by me, like a basically harmless science experiment. "Well...yeah." What am I supposed to say? "Did your wife just leave you?" `Yeah...actually, how did you know that?" "My dad was like that when my mom took off." she smiles, "kind of sentimental. Tried to do it over again. Got to be a busybody, you know. He's sweet, though. He didn't hurt anyone." "You are going to meet him, though, right?" "Why is it so important to you? It won't make your wife come back. Sorry, that was mean." She's so young. "No, it's fine. I just want you to know he loves you." "He can tell me himself. I don't like cowards." "Who is he?" "A friend. From work. A real friend, you know, I'm not just calling him a friend so I can lead him on. He's the real thing. Not that you should know that." She actually blushes, the red smear over her eye fading. I should turn around. She has her phone. She paid me. Mission accomplished. Except... "Why's he your friend?" "My bus is coming in a few minutes." she says but she doesn't move away. In fact, she tucks her hair back under her nellow hat like she's setlling in. "Look, if you're just going to be weird about this and I don't feel like stopping you, he's funny. I laugh with him all the time. I'm not so damn tense anymore." "Look, I see you all the time when you come in for your coffee. I'm not spying on you. You just notice things when regulars come in." I'm yammering. "like how the old lady with the ballet slippers comes in at six and gets a chocolate croissant every Saturday. Things like that. You're always smiling and looking at your phone. People don't smile like that for their friends."
Now she's angry. "What's it to you? I know about this stuff. When you paint, there's a point in the painting where it can either become beautiful or just a total mess. With one brushstroke. That's where I am. I could destroy the one good thing I've got going for me." "I know he loves you." "Did he tell you?" I can't actually believe it. I'm choking up. I can feel the pressure behind my eyes. I need to call Claudia and tell her how stupid I look. "Because that's how I talked. I said small things. I reached out. Over and over. Little ways. Too little. She didn't see them. Who really sees flowers and that kind of thing? She didn't want flowers, she wanted me to stand next to her in the kitchen and talk about nothing important. She wanted me to be her friend." She's reaching into her purse and handing me a tissue. Claudia would laugh. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe I made her look cruel so I wouldn't have to be sorry. "It got better, for my dad," she said, "he started taking walks in the morning. Doing the crossword, playing basketball with the other guys in his neighborhood. He met someone last year. I actually kind of like her now." "You must think I'm... "I don't think you're any worse off than anyone else. We're all kind of a wreck." The air-brakes on the bus squeal as it pulls in. "This is me." She swings her purse over her shoulder, "good luck. I promise it'll get easier. Just don't stalk people, okay." I find myself smiling. A real one, after almost thre months. As she climbs up the steps, I hear her tell the driver, "Twenty-Second Street station, near the park."

Toasted bagels. Muffins. Black coffee. Lattes. The occasional request for herbal tea. Sometimes I worry that my life has been reduced to a long string of $3 transactions for things that add no real value to the world. After all, if coffee shops didn’t exist, people could have all the things they are buying from me at home before leaving for work, or in the office break room.

But when I look up from the espresso machine long enough to see all the faces in my little place I know Joe’s Joe isn’t primarily a place to buy coffee. It’s a place to share community.

I don’t get up at 4 every morning to open the shop so that I can sell bagels with cream cheese. I do it to see all those familiar and unfamiliar faces, to say good morning, and ask about the kids or the vacation. These are not deep conversations or relationships, but they create positive connection and they matter - to me and most everyone who comes through the door.

That’s why I’ve developed a sixth sense for when someone comes into the shop who isn’t there for the right reason. I’m never quite sure what it is, and because of that I’m always checking myself to see if someone’s ethnicity, race, gender identity, age, or other visible characteristics have anything to do with it.

I feel like I can never be certain they don’t - I know I’ve got internalized bias - so I never act on my first impression. I’m just more attentive until I feel confident one way or another.

Take the guy who came in this morning. Nothing notable about his appearance, but there was something off. He was maybe 30, think grunge band guitar player. He didn’t walk directly to the counter or to drop his stuff at a table. He looked slightly lost, unsure, or maybe even afraid. He didn’t make eye contact with me or anyone else. The bag on his shoulder seemed to be empty, and he was alternately squeezing his right forearm and scratching his ear.

There could have been hundred reasons for this behavior that weren’t in the least threatening. On the other hand, there were at least a few reasons someone coming into a coffee shop could give off these nervous vibes that were a problem.

Turns out, his intentions were a problem. My head was turned toward one of my regulars who was ordering her daily quad-shot non-fat latte, when I heard the scream.

I looked out into the cafe just in time to see Grunge Band Man ripping the purse from the hands of a young mother who’d been sitting playing Old Maid - or something like it - with her toddler. She was yelling at him to let go when the strap broke, sending her stumbling backward into her table. The toddler was shaking and in tears.

As the thief ran from the coffee shop, my instincts took over and I followed him.

A razor thin cloud sliced across the flat face of the full moon. Surrounded by half done tables, Kay was tallying the night’s take. A W shaped shadow shaded the moon. Kay’s pupils dilated and her muscles tensed. Freida placed reassuring hands on shoulders. Her eyes followed her girlfriend’s stare.

“Go chica, I got this but be careful,” Freida whispered and discreetly patted Kay’s bottom.

In a louder voice, Freida encouraged the cleanup staffers to hurry and the first round at Sneaky Pete’s was on her. Kay slipped into the night camouflaged by her employees’ cheers.

“Can you grab the case of sodas out of the back,” Darla called from the driveway. “Roger! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”

A mysterious blue gray fog rolled in. A masked figure in midnight blue leather full body suit with thigh high boots, a sinewy cape, and strangest of all a prim white frilly apron stood on their porch.

Naturally Darla screamed dropping two bags of groceries. Roger ran outside, looked up, and then he screamed. The masked figure leapt from the porch roof into a tight somersault and landed feet first on their loaf of bread.

“Who the hell are you?” Roger shouted, hiding slightly behind his wife.

“I am Waitress Woman. The avenging angel of aggrieved servers, the nemesis of rude customers, and those that don’t tip call me retribution. You owe Nisha P. of Sunny Sides Up, $42.69.”

The couple looked around uncomfortably.

“We are originally from Europe and they don’t—“ Darla said nervously.

“You’re in America now next!” Waitress Woman gave a vicious kick to their low-fat milk.

The carton splashed against the iron jockey lawn statue.

Wiping droplets from his face, Roger shouted, “I will have you know I’m a youth pastor and our congregation is a valued customer of that fine establishment.”

“You ever hear of the PTL Club? That stands for Preachers Tip Less. Church groups notoriously take up huge amounts of restaurant real estate for longer periods of the time than the heathens, order more free refills and complimentary breadsticks, running their servers back and forth with special requests. You know your bible group averaged four drinks per person, Miss Mary pretends to be allergic to everything, Miss Martha always spills something, and Miss Eveline stuffs her purse with everything not nailed down. Nisha gave you great service and you gave her a goose egg,” Waitress Woman said spiking a ripe peach into the side of Darla’s car.

“That’s her job and she gets paid—“ Darla broke off when a can of tuna whizzed past her head.

“Nisha gets paid $2.13 an hour,” Waitress Woman growled, crushing a carton of eggs under her boots as she stepped into the quaking couple’s personal space. “Now her restaurant could mandate an automatic gratuity for large parties. Hell restaurants could pay a living wage but what let’s not hold our breath on that. So what’s it gonna be Jim and Tammy Faye?”

The caped crusader cracked her knuckles. They dove for their wallets. Waitress Woman made exact change from her frilly apron, leapt on the hood of their car, and shot a grappling hook in to the neighbor’s tree.

“You know your name is kind of redundant. Waitress is feminine,” Darla snapped.

“Good tip.” Waitress Woman sailed back into the moonlit night her apron in the wind always ready to serve justice.

Every day do party💪💪🤣🤣 🕉️💟☮️