Allen makes his way up the sidewalk to the Five Star café. Ah hah!—and this one different from the last. The taste of an omelet has crept into his mind behind all his aimless thinking. He starts to salivate at the potential taste of salt and green peppers, butter-burned mushrooms and onions. Even the color of the food, bright flecks and sparks against the day’s backdrop—overdrop?—seem attractive. The door jingles open with a light tug and Allen makes his way to the counter. He glances over his shoulder to see if the bell that has rung is a real one. It was a small silver one just above the hinge side of the door.

“Could I get a vegetable omelet, to go?”

The girl behind the counter nods, a strand of red hair falling over her eye. She blows at it while pecking at the register. “Will that be all?”

Allen nods.

She totals the order. “Five dollars.”

Fishing through his wallet, Allen plucks a five from some ones and ATM receipts, making a mental note to stop at an ATM on his way out of town. He tries to think of how much gas is in the car but can’t remember.

“It’ll be a couple of minutes,” the girl says and carries the order away to the kitchen.

Seating himself at a table near the counter, Allen looks around at the other patrons. He thinks through the list of things he needs to take to Atlanta with him. He might need to check the car’s oil. The fact that it was idling so low bothered him—not that it was an emergency. The car had been doing it for a month now. If he had time, there was some paperwork to do. That could wait until Monday though. He folds his arms in front of him and decides to just enjoy the weekend and let work wait. After a moment, his smell drifts up to his face and he realizes he should take a shower before he leaves as well. Other than that there was nothing pressing today—nothing but the sky.

Allen stares blankly out the window at the trees across the street, losing their leaves. He sees the name of the restaurant spelled backwards on the glass. Considering his record after the workout and eating a meal, he’d pass out in his armchair for a little while. He laughs at the time Jodie found him doing just that once when she was visiting. The old-man-favorite-chair jokes persisted for several days much to Allen’s chagrin.

His thoughts are interrupted by the young girl at the counter entering the room with a Styrofoam box in hand. He gets up, takes it from her, receives a pleasant smile and gives one back. “Say. You don’t know what exactly makes a café a café do you? I mean, the difference between a café and, say, a diner… or something?”

The girl pauses. “Uh… no.”

Allen nods politely and the girl seems dissatisfied with her answer. She likes Allen’s face. “I mean, like, I guess a café doesn’t have waiters… maybe… it’s supposed to be outside or something.”

Allen nods and smiles again.

She smiles again.

“Thanks. Have a good one.”

Read the whole thread: A Low Cloud Reflex

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