Some co-workers and I stopped into this beaten-down Italian pastry shop in New Haven one evening. It was raining buckets and the place was about to close. The girl behind the counter kept yelling into her phone (it was a little hard to tell when she was talking to us and when she wasn’t) and the screen was smashed, so she could only use the phone by voice commands. She explained that she was trying to text her boyfriend, who was listed in her contacts as ‘Satan’.