The first time the police surrounded our table at that quiet suburban café, I remember thinking that the whole scene would look ridiculous to anyone who actually knew the truth.
But to the people staring from behind their cappuccinos and glazed croissants, it probably looked like the beginning of a disaster.
The manager’s voice had already climbed two octaves higher than necessary when he pointed toward our corner table and said, loud enough for half the patio to hear, “That man has been sitting there with that animal and that little girl for almost an hour.”
I didn’t bother looking up at first.
I was too busy watching seven-year-old Chloe carefully dip the edge of a blueberry muffin into the whipped cream sitting in a small paper cup beside her. She concentrated with the seriousness only children possess, as if the success of the entire morning depended on the precise balance between pastry and cream.
