the old lady ahead of me, with the pixie silver gray hair and sweet smile, commented. She held a basket with children’s books, as well as a few classics. “Roger—my late husband—would’ve yelled at the poor young girl. He lacked patience, but I loved the man. He died three years ago; he had a stroke.” With a weak smile, I checked my iPhone. I didn’t want to be rude, but twenty minutes of small talk, plus troops of last minute shoppers, equaled a massive headache. My head had been pounding since I’d arrived at the bookstore. The bookstore manager wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten Christmas would hit us soon. Crowds and I didn’t mesh—my condition bordered on demophobia with a splash of agoraphobia. Yet another kink of mine. No one called me a procrastinator, though I did practice it when necessary. For example, if I had to buy groceries, clean my apartment, or get my work done, I’d never use it.
