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06 february 2003.
it's been years since i'd been there, but it smelled the same. i got chills from the wind or nostalgia, maybe both. the seats around the counter still looked new, but the tiles from the footstep had crumbled, dusty and brown underneath. i observe everything from ceiling to floor with wide eyes and say "he used to bring me here, usually on thursdays" and remember kicking my legs, still too short to touch the floor. the cook comes out of the kitchen, his white apron splashed with clear-brown grease spots, and glares me in the eyes. i'm tempted to ask if he remembers me, but something in his knowing look tells me, yes, he probably does. in my head i can hear the conversation: "you've gotten older." yeah, college now, second year. "still around?" only home on breaks. "so where's he at?" it got him two years ago. diabetes and blood poisoning. "too bad." yeah. "hot tea?" okay, thank you. no one else could tell because it looked exactly the same, but there was something missing. i know. |
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