I wrote this about two months ago for my language arts class...
On the third day of January, a city was drowned in golden sunlight yet even the water that came from the fountains in school froze to crystal clear ice the second it spurted out. *Pat, pat, pat, pat.* A middle-aged business man's footstops on the ice was the only thing to be heard in the vacant lot as he parked his fancy sports car and scurried into a quaint rundown resaurant for a warm delicious lunch. He lifted one shaky hand and then the other, pressed both hands against the cold glass and pushed. He stepped inside the quiet eating-spot and thoroughly looked around, searching for his perfect spot. He found it. It was a sparkling clean table, mostly hidden in a dark warm corner. It had one seat that faced a giant window that overlooked the whole lot, the other cars on the street, and all the shoppes around. The man quickly took his seat and gazed out the window, watching the world pass him by. It was amazing. The more he watched, the foggier the window became. The man's face was so close to the precious glass, his lips were almost touching it, and his breath was creating the window to steam up. More warm and clammy he became by his own breath. As the man intensivley stared out the window, watching everything happen, a waitress appeared ready to take his order. Startled, the young man straightened out his tie and ordered his meal. After he ordered, as he contemplated on certain thoughts and what-nots, a little ways down the gaudy rugged aisle, a young waitress dropped a tray full of food on the floor. The man watched her worriedly drop to her knees and frantically pick up the mess. Every move she made and every emotion that fell apon her face he saw. Disgrace. Shame. Worry. Fret. It must have been her first day. "Poor kid," he thought to himself. All of a sudden, the man sprang from his table and knelt to the floor aside the waitress. Silently yet quickly, the two common people helped one another pick up the mess. She thanked him as he returned to his seat and she walked back to where she needed to be. When the man returned he sat down in front of his newly arrived bowl of soup, fresh glass of orange juice, and his delicious apple pie. Right before each spoonfull of soup into his mouth, he would gently blow onto the steamy goodness, and then wolf it past his chapped lips and into his mouth. After he scarfed down his soup, he glanced across the table at his scrumpious pie. With one forceful motion, the plate was pushed across the table like a puppy trying to abruptly stop on a wooden floor. After gliding across the table, the hospital-white plate bounced against his dry rough hand and slowly stopped right infront of him--- a perfect place. The man then quickly thrusted at the innocent pie with his strong metal fork right in the center. A smile a came across his face for the table was not as clean anymore. Apple sauce and crumbs from the pie sputtered and broke off all over the table. The only reason why he was now sitting back against his seat, laughing to himself, was because this was more of a memory than the present to him. When he was a little boy, he and his father came to the same restaurant and sat at the same bright table the man was sitting at now. His father made the same wild gesture and they both had a jolly time together chuckling at the mess they've created. It may not seem as funny to you, but laughing as a young boy with his father was one of the few great memories this man actually had of his dad. On the same day, January third, the man's father died. Having such a memory, the lonesome man vowed to himself that he would always return to this restaurant on this exact day and sit here, until the day he died. After the man snapped out of his flashback, he chugged his sweet orange juice within one breath and brought he hand to his smooth cold face. With one quick stern wipe, the salty tear was whisked away from his baby blue eye. Once again, the forlorn man straightened out his tie and cleared his throat. As he slowly shifted one side of his body off the flat seat, his hand slid underneath and firmly tucked into his pocket. Adding a little more energy he yanked his brown tattered wallet from the back pocket of his neatly pressed business suit. He settled back into the seat and opened the wallet. A splash of color and interest entered the scene. A great variety of sized, different styled, black and white or colorful, pictures were in the wallet. The photos sprang out of the old worn-out wallet but the man searched for his money. Fives, tens, twenties. "There we go, twenties," he thought. He slid one twenty dollar bill on the table and left everything else in place. He gradually got all the way off his seat and paced himself down the aisle. He passed the waitress that was going to his table and told her to keep the tip. The man clenched the door handle and hauled it open vigorously. Instantly, a puff of breath appeared before his face. It was freezing out there. He rubbed each hand against one another for warmth. He reached his frosty car, started it, and drove out the parking lot back home. This day wasn't extraordinary from any other to most people, only him. And as the man saw it, to his father as well. And that's all that mattered.
The End
The End