Angela walked off to the food court. She glanced around the room, scanning for her daughters, but found nothing. She sighed.
For a Friday night, the food court was doing fairly well. The tables were largely occupied, and the scent of myriad nation's cuisines, tinged with the odor of grease and salt, wafted through the air. The hubbub of the crowd's eating and conversation rang through the cavernous room. Angela took a look around at the diners and grinned. Maybe she didn't need to find her daughters to have some fun tonight.
At the far table by a salad place sat a throng of 20-something-year-old women. To a T, they wore spaghetti-strap tops and short shorts, and, to their credit, were mostly using their clothes to their proper effect. The exception to this rule was a short, round-faced redhead, facing Angela, who sported nothing in the way of assets.
To the opposite side of the court, close to Angela, sat a single young man wearing a University of Illinois hoodie. He was cleaning his glasses as he ran a hand through his short, slightly-messy hair, and was trying to shrink into invisibility within his seat.
Then again, Angela could go for some food right now.
"What to do, what to do," she whispered to herself.
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