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We eventually found one spot near the mall, thanks to a teacher’s random aside one day in class. It was a coffee shop where an espresso was only a couple of bucks and the steamed milk ran cheap, where the biscotti was fresh and we’d eventually become regulars, friends with those who worked the bar. We didn’t fit in, though, not at all. It was an Italian café, Comini’s, and most of the clientele preferred greased back hair, leather jackets, buona seras. The first few times we went in, people watched us, at first overtly, then in the mirrors set on one wall. Jackie and I staked out the corner couches, near the window and framed by angelic white twinkle lights, and soon enough everyone else grew used to our presence, watching me sling back espresso demitasses as if they were water, taking for granted Jackie’s over-expressive hand gestures and ultra-sweet cafes aux laites.