“I’m back,” Zoey says miserably into the phone as she pays for her food, grabs the plate, and moves over to wait for her quiche. She listens for a while before responding. “At a café.” Pause again. “In the East Village.”

“Quiche Lorraine,” Evelynn calls out.

“Oh, that’s me,” Zoey says and she goes to grab the plate that Evelynn just put out. Only she seems to forget that she’s already holding another plate, along with her phone. The cookie plate goes clattering to the floor, shattering into pieces and throwing all of its baked goods to the four corners of the café. As she futilely tries to grab for it, her phone goes flying out of her other hand, but not before she must’ve accidentally hit the speaker button because suddenly a scolding female voice is booming out from the floor.

“I really hope you’re not contributing to the blatant gentrification and homogenization of the East Village, Zoey. Of course you know we met a family in Ethiopia who had a restaurant on Second Avenue for years before they were priced out, and then do you know what moved into their space? A molecular Ethiopian-slash-Japanese fusion bistro. Run by a Vegas conglomerate. This is exactly the sort of thing that keeps us from ever coming back to the States.”

“Why don’t you get your coffee from a nice bodega? Or a food truck?” a male voice calls out.

“A real food truck,” the woman clarifies. “Not one of those artisan grilled cheese affairs run by the trust fund offspring of the one percent.”

“Obviously,” the man says.

Zoey is on her knees now, frantically pressing the speaker button on her phone. Only it doesn’t seem to be working. I think because her hand is smeared with cream cheese frosting from her unsuccessful attempt to grab at the red velvet cupcake.

I walk over, kneel down to take the phone from her, and press the button for her.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, her voice shaky. She looks at the phone in my hand like it’s a ticking time bomb.

I don’t know what possesses me but I hold it up to my ear and speak into it. “Is it okay if Zoey calls you back?”

“Who is this?” the startled voice that I assume belongs to Zoey’s mom says in my ear.

“This is her comrade, Vlad,” I respond smoothly. “We’re just about to start our march in Washington Square Park. Workers of the world, unite!” And then I hang up the phone.

Zoey gives out a loud honk, a laugh that is dangerously close to becoming a sob.

“Good thing this is made from renewable sugarcane instead of ceramic.” Evelynn has walked over with a broom and is pointing to the plate, which has broken into three large pieces instead of shattering into a million.

“Sorry,” Zoey says as she reaches over to clean up.