Fail.

An old acquaintance comes to our shop for coffee. She’s dyed her hair Clifford the Big Red Dog red and carries new fury in her eyes.

“Where ya been?” I ask.

She’s been losing her job. Having an affair. She’ll be making more in unemployment, disability and state assistance for her kids than she did taking calls for a big, bad bank anyway, she says. She doesn’t say she’s terrified, just looks that way.

I give her advice, which is what I do when I don’t know what to say. Things like “it’s liberating in some ways to lose your sense of security” and “it gets easier after the initial shock.”

It’s also really stressful. And she looks really stressed. And I feel like a jerk.

“Three dollars, please. Do you have your punch card?”

Really. This is what I say.

It does get easier, this whole being destitute thing. But telling someone that is like saying, “He’s a jerk. Just break up with him” when a girlfriend comes over crying. Not helpful.

Dammit.