The booth in the back is my comfort-
Its worn red seat with the fraying electrical tape catches my clothing in a familiar way
I squint and ponder “today’s specials” on the wall in front of me, as I feel the eyes of those behind me do the same
Should I pretend today?
I cast a serious face towards my cellphone, willing it to announce an email, a text. The phone screams silence.
Perhaps I’ll open my notebook and take out that sterling pen I’ve kept for all these years, my initials worn from use. Maybe words will come, flow, like these tears I feel behind my eyes. Maybe I’ll seep words instead. Maybe.
A waitress approaches. She’s perky, and pretty, and filled with purpose.
“Tea, please. Black. With lemon.”
She doesn’t know me.
I study today’s specials. Clam chowder and beef barley soups. The fisherman’s children most likely dug and gathered them before school this morning.
Tuesday pot roast. All you can eat. My mind wanders to a warm kitchen filled with the odor of roasting onions and beef. Intoxicating smells. I unconsciously lick my lips. Banana cream and blueberry pies. The fisherman’s children would have picked those blueberries, too.
Early bird special: chipped beef on toasted rye.
My tea sits un-sipped.
Yes. I think I’ll pretend that today I am a famous author of the mystery genre. Or perhaps of a fantasy.
I’ll pretend today. Yes. I’ll pretend.