@kylore
   Claire comes barrelling into Siddhartha with all the grace of a bull in a china store. She knocks over a chair, trips over her untied lace and wobbles, teetering on the edge of falling, flirting with landing face-first on the ground. She gives herself a few seconds to catch her breath. Sheâs soaking from head to toe, and when she turns to pick up the chair her sneakers make vaguely worrying squelching noises.
   Claire is having a bad night. She wanted to be somewhere else, so she walked, and now sheâs here. She shoves the chair back under the table and puffs out a breath and jams her hands on her hips and considers screaming, or flipping a table, or ripping open all the packets of sugar and tossing them arbitrarily around the room.
