She was hunched over a worn diner plate at the Country Kitchen, tearing apart pancakes with her fingers, dipping them into syrup, then hurriedly stuffing the pieces into her mouth.
She was about 17, the age when most people are fairly self-conscious. But she held my gaze when she caught me staring, mouth agape, at her ripping into her short stack.
Her gray Arctic Cat sweatshirt hung loosely over her slightly padded body and she twittered excitedly, with her mouth stuffed full, to her elderly companions about the black stocking cap she wore. “Big Rigs” screamed out in blood red letters from its front. It was clearly a Christmas gift, and it made her happy. Her bovine eyes shone behind outdated wire-rimmed glasses as she spoke of it.
Let me heinously misquote Diablo Cody — I’m in the motherland and don’t have the book with me:
“I have what’s been called a ‘staring problem.’”
(from Candy Girl)