“Can you get a fork, Dad?”

A young woman and her father, set up at the table next to me at a local bakery, where the prized goods are not inexpensive. The daughter, dressed in garb characteristic of a financially comfortable millennial - barrel jeans, a baseball cap, and black Chelsea boots; i.e. hipster casual. In this particular social class, there is no need to impress or make a statement with clothing because they are that secure in their socio-economic standing. In fact, the less obtrusive, and just slightly off-beat (as a subtle gesture of self-assuredness), the more secure. 

To politely ask her father to “get her a fork” for the $8 pastry they will share at 3p on a weekday, is indicative of access to certain prized indulgences: a) an $8 pastry (plus tax); b) a weekday afternoon tea break; and c) an unhurried, safe, and loving conversation exploring one another’s well-being and latest accomplishments (superfluous topics for others with mouths to feed, with substantial food).

While this gorgeous demonstration of a healthy conversation unfolds next to me, dozens of police cars with their sirens blaring, drive by on the road perpendicular to us. I learn there is an active shooter at the university just one mile away from where I am. Yet, I stay. As does the sweet father-daughter duo next to me. I have convinced myself that I am safe in my bourgeois bubble of baked goods. I carry on. I carry on writing on my Apple Macbook, while slowly nibbling on my gluten-free financier. 

I want to nestle into the warmth and safety of overt kindnesses and formalities with my guardian, and know that I will always be held. I want to take for granted the time of day we converse and the proper meal the cost of a pastry supplants. I want to ask for a fork knowing it will always be retrieved.