A small, unedited story.
He was sitting at the table carefully staring into the water stained spoon, slowly moving nearest and furthest from the point of vision where his upside down face appeared to turn into a dark spot only recognizable to him.
"Suspicious", he hums inaudibly.
For three years, six months, and fourteen days, Alexander had been a regular patron of the cafe on the corner of Leslie and Harringdon (approximately nineteen steps from his front door, give or take a few depending on the vessels he'd chosen to sheathe his feet in that particular morning).
His relationship with the establishment was largely one sided. He had watched as the proprietor, a stout man with a comely face and an poorly matched temper, fawned and hated both his patrons and staff in equal amounts. He had overheard conversations of how business could boom if only the competition hadn't stolen their perfect sandwich idea, or if the sign above the door was painted a little less crooked by the neighbour's son, or if the boyfriends of the girls working up front would stop coming in to distract them. He had seen waitresses come and go as regular as coffee spills on the counter are unceremoniously wiped away. There, and then... not.
He knew the cracks on the once tan colored naugahyde booth better than his mother knew the laugh lines on his uncle Ludo's face, which at family gatherings she marveled loudly at. When the occasion arose that Alexander could not escape her crooning, he would wonder what on Earth had been so funny in the first place.
The nuances of this organization had caused Alexander to unwittingly adjust his personal customs. He knew a great number of things about the objects and the people in this place, and though not a soul nor sugar bowl within earshot could utter his name if he begged it, he cared very deeply for them just the same.
"Suspicious", he hums inaudibly.
For three years, six months, and fourteen days, Alexander had been a regular patron of the cafe on the corner of Leslie and Harringdon (approximately nineteen steps from his front door, give or take a few depending on the vessels he'd chosen to sheathe his feet in that particular morning).
His relationship with the establishment was largely one sided. He had watched as the proprietor, a stout man with a comely face and an poorly matched temper, fawned and hated both his patrons and staff in equal amounts. He had overheard conversations of how business could boom if only the competition hadn't stolen their perfect sandwich idea, or if the sign above the door was painted a little less crooked by the neighbour's son, or if the boyfriends of the girls working up front would stop coming in to distract them. He had seen waitresses come and go as regular as coffee spills on the counter are unceremoniously wiped away. There, and then... not.
He knew the cracks on the once tan colored naugahyde booth better than his mother knew the laugh lines on his uncle Ludo's face, which at family gatherings she marveled loudly at. When the occasion arose that Alexander could not escape her crooning, he would wonder what on Earth had been so funny in the first place.
The nuances of this organization had caused Alexander to unwittingly adjust his personal customs. He knew a great number of things about the objects and the people in this place, and though not a soul nor sugar bowl within earshot could utter his name if he begged it, he cared very deeply for them just the same.