Leora Calmus
Stories (1/0)
The Line Cook
The bell attached to the glass entryway door rang as an old man with heavy eyes inched his way into the dimly lit diner. He could barely pick his feet up off the ground as he moved to a nearby open table. He sat in a corner booth with torn vinyl upholstery that had an indiscriminate white fuzz peaking through. As the old man waited with a subdued composure that only comes with age he fiddled with the flaking wood veneer table top that easily matched him in years. There were only a handful or so of other customers at that time of night, and still the waitress took her time as she made her way over to the old man. His face, in a constant state of drooping grumpiness, showed an unexpressed and deeply buried impatience. His eyes longed to control time itself, to take things back and to make things right, yet his body sat still in acquiescence.
By Leora Calmus4 years ago in Futurism