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Weld spatter burns pepper arms that prop up a head that aches like poverty. The flies buzz by like maverick pilots and cause one of the arms to lash out in an annoyed ballet. Coffee and water stand on a stained Formica battlefield cooling and warming in unison.
Both becoming unpleasant.
The murmur of patrons drone along with the piped in pop creating an audible equivalent to the cranium ache. Eyes peer at the empty other side of the booth, the ceiling painted in nicotine, soft water spots on sparkling new silverware and an ashtray as empty as an insincere eulogy. The server strives for an Academy Award with his customers’ two booths up.
Eyes close
Eyes open
Breathing is measured as nothing happens at this spot, on this planet as it spins, hurtling through space.