Do you believe in prayer

The other day a man placed a hand on my forehead and asked another man named Jesus to take away my migraine pain. Did it work, he says, after the treatment. There was momentary relief, I reply, probably from the human caring. I continue to stand at the cafe counter. He remains by my side. Can you make my latte arrive faster, I ask. The other day a man poured water on my hands. He wants me to feel the power of a scrub laced with gold. Oh my god, I say, touching my softened skin. I'm Jewish, he says, we say O-M-GEE. He offers me a deal. Fifty dollars off the regular price for scrub and butter. I decline. Please send people to my shop, he says. The other day a woman runs around a lake. I've been wearing the wrong bra size all my life, she says. Her correct assessment plagues many. I hold back from chasing after her and giving my source for cups and measurements. Instead, I tend to my bosom and seek a refresher garment. What you bought before isn't here now says the woman who a few seasons ago wrapped a tape measure under my breasts. Buyers live on the coasts not the Midwest, she says. They want change, to make trends. We want the same, she says. I leave with a prayer to O-M-GEE. Simple, I plead, make this simple. How hard can holding up boobs be?