It’s practically a rule that all newly inaugurated freshmen feel like they’re hot shit, and moreover, that they know more about college than any seasoned, grizzled veteran of the experience. Rose Lalonde’s own interpretation of her own intelligence did nothing to dampen that effect, so upon her arrival there, she quickly began to dispense information as if to emulate those second- and third-years.
Within the first weeks of class, she’d already found her haunt: a secluded coffee shop nestled between the edges of campus and the fringes of the actual town. Of course, as one of these self-entitled new college students, she felt smug in the belief that she’d found this place all on her own, and that she was its most genuine college patron.
The possibility that you just couldn’t see them didn’t ever occur to you, which was doubly unusual, given the fact that you were, for the most part, acutely aware of the limitations imposed upon you by your blindness. However, in this case, the myopia of freshmandom superseded that, and you basked in your assumption that this was your place.
She had a drink, too: a regular cappuccino made slightly stronger with the addition of a little sugar and another shot. Of course, though, it was only a matter of time before she’d run into another student by actually talking to them.
With one hand clutched around her coffee and another putting aside her cane, she checked in for the day, pulling out her laptop to do some work, using headphones for her screen-reader and tuning out the world. Anyone wanting to talk would need to get through that doubled barrier.