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Who is this sassy lost child
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Wow, this chick must be really bored. Or maybe she was just one of those overly-helpful types eager to make a sale, from the way she was beaming at him. Either-or.

Well, at least she might know what he was looking for. "Yeah," he said shortly, digging in his jacket pocket for his phone. "Hang on." Phone retrieved, he brought up his memos and located the author's name. "You know if you've got anything by..." Jae eyed the name suspiciously before slowly sounding it out. "Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie...?"

God, he hoped he hadn't mangled that too badly. He knew how annoying it was when someone butchered your name or native language just because it wasn't English. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie might not have been around to hear it if he had completely messed up, but that didn't mean he was going to disregard how her name was supposed to be pronounced just because nobody was there to correct him.

Unless Jasmine turned out to be a fan like Nadia was, in which case he was fucked. Jae gave her a sidelong look. Unfortunately there were no identifying marks or sign over her head that could tell him if she was hardcore into feminist foreign literature or not.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Hell is Other People · Main Street