Prandi was walking without purpose or direction, the tears falling like indifferent rain. Her eyes were blurred, her brain foggy, so she didn’t hear the familiar, raspy voice calling her at first.

“Jeez, Louise, child! I’ve been calling your name for at least an hour. I swear, this i-Pop generation’s deafer than my own.”

Prandi’s eyes cleared in time to see Gladys waving her hands comically, three dozen bangles clanging frenetically up and down her arms.

“Oh, hi, Gladys,” she said glumly and plopped down at a table near a coffee stand. Gladys sat down opposite her and peered with grandmotherly concern into Prandi’s face.

“Didn’t you hear me? I swear I felt like I was talking to myself.”

“I heard you, Gladys. And by the way, it’s iPod, not iPop.”

“Tomato, Tomatoh, sugar. Anyway, where’s that nice boy you left with? He’s real cute.”

Prandi’s eyes welled up, the tears threatening to over-flood once more. She opened her mouth to speak and found she couldn’t. It was as if the tears had stolen her voice.