The story had lost everyone's interest a couple of sentences ago, so I glanced at a woman standing against a street sign outside. She was watching me intently through the glass. When I met her gaze, she waved to me by holding up her left hand and letting her long fingers collapse down into their palm. The mocking pout she affixed to her face convinced me to noiselessly stand up, leave the table, and walk outside.
Her Persian blood made itself evident in her nose and her skin and her hair; but her tongue and her hands were American. She spoke nervously of seeing me look bored among my friends and told a story about a time she wished she'd been saved. All the while, she clutched her phone in her right hand. Even when she used sharp or elaborate gestures to aid her speech, it waved along.
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