In Public Quotes

“Some people avoid thinking deeply in public, only because they are afraid of coming across as suicidal.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“We would not be ashamed of doing some of the things we do in private, if the number of sane human beings who do them in public were large enough.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“Talk behind closed doors is often different from what is said in the public domain.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“Does it bother you that your girlfriend is a heartless bitch?” the next customer asked.
And just like that, her smile withered away to nothing. This was the response she’d expected. Had experienced before she got smart and stopped checking her social media accounts. The ball of anxiety in her stomach that had started to calm began to twist and turn and bounce around the small space again.
“Excuse me.” Donovan’s voice carried through the room, quite forceful in its intensity, snaring the attention of all occupants.
Jada laid a hand on his bare forearm. “It’s okay.”
“No, actually it’s not. No one talks about my girlfriend that way.”
Jada’s jaw unhinged itself from her face and fell straight to the floor. She couldn’t hear anything else over the buzzing in her head. When she stumbled out of her stupor a few seconds later, Donovan was marching the woman to the door and gently but firmly pushing her out the door while the other customers cheered. Well, the ones who weren’t recording the spectacle.
He came back and held up his hand for silence. Such a principal move, but kinda cool. And so fucking hot. “Thanks, everyone, but the applause isn’t necessary. We’re happy to serve anyone who wants a cupcake and a photo, but I won’t tolerate rudeness.”
His message was received loud and clear. For the next thirty minutes, they sold cupcakes to very eager, but polite customers.”
― Jamie Wesley, Fake It Till You Bake It

“You're calling me shallow? So you know so much about this, huh? Which restaurants have you worked in?" He held his hands out. "Where are your scars?"
I stiffened. I shouldn't have to pour out any of my pain for him to take me seriously. "I don't have to have worked in a restaurant to know what makes cooking really good," I snapped.
He folded his arms like a sulky fourteen-year-old. "Then educate me."
That clearly wasn't an invitation, but screw it. I stood up and planted my hands on the table. "Caring. I don't mean for the details. I mean caring for the person who's going to eat it. Giving them a little piece of what you love the most." I jabbed my finger at my plate. "All of these dishes, they're just about showing off."
He rubbed his forearm hard, his face stony. "But I won Fire on High. I'm kind of a big deal, in case you didn't know. I think it's OK for me to show off."
I held up a finger. "You won one competition," I said slowly, contempt sneaking into my voice. "This year. Can you name the person who won two years ago? Three? Unless you take this seriously, your book will gather dust in a remainder pile somewhere, a historical record of a leprechaun in a stupid bandanna who was famous for a hot second."
The stone in his expression crumbled away. Bright green eyes flashed, hands clenched. His mouth opened and closed, and finally he hissed, "Who the fuck are you to tell me that? You're nobody. You can't even get your own name on a book. Who gives a shit what you think?"
My voice shot high with anger. "I'm the woman who has to clean up your mess, you entitled, arrogant brat."
It was quiet. Not the silence of people eating delicious food. It was post-atomic-bomb explosion quiet.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn