October 22, 2015:
Seventy empty chairs and Johnny Breakfast Wrap sits next to me, chewing. I have a theory. He wants to throw stolen glances at the same pretty thirty-year-old who's been throwing them at me since I arrived.
Older lady, great-grandma, died auburn curls and wet smoker's cough, hangs her shades from the platinum necklace around her neck. It's a fashion and a class statement: she's well-to-do, but casual about it.
Johnny Breakfast Wrap finishes breakfast, whips out his phone, makes business calls in which he unsurprisingly gives orders. He's The Boss. Lonely Boss, checking out chicks at Starbucks, lingering from some hopeless false hope of contact.