Hazel loved the Soho coffee shops, listening in on conversations while sipping coffee, a notebook open containing nothing but lists and to-dos and scraps of overheard dialogue and things she’d noticed: the slip of a girl’s eye toward a sexy man with another woman, the rip of paper when a just-written paragraph went astray, the astrologer with the hoop earrings and red scarf in the corner, giving readings to those willing to shell over a few pence.
