Harnett-Hargrove

RoM 07 - #2/9 A Cop of Cafe

It was in the wee wee hours that I turned off the meandering highway toward a rest stop on a dead end. The other taillights faded and disappeared as I glided up into the glow of a neon drawn tea cup. Time stood still under the illumination.

I made my way into the tiny rudy cafe. The dive was dimly lit, and it took focus to make my way to the low counter that glinted like a flattened sparkly bowling ball. The lowbrow concierge was a hybrid of south Asian, north Africa, tragic fashion, and a hand full of  3am drugs. The waitress' eyes darted with an attempt at not blinking, as though shutting them even for a moment, would loose her the reality she sought to keep. The spirit of the nine tailed fox moved within her and I could feel that if one made the wrong move, it would jump out.

I handed over the Stanley sans twist lid, leaned against the counter to feel steady enough to look around in the dusky light. Turning toward the general dining room, a sea of orange knit caps turned to meet my gaze with a questioning manner. Under the orange were gristly beards and below that camouflage. There was a puffiness to the congregation that belied weapons under every jacket. I was too tired to be stricken, but wondered who was in trouble. Them or me. In a corner too far for my comfort, a gaggle of local cops sat under their cone of silence, nursing their own brand of instant café and cake donuts. 

Today I gave up breaking the silence. Or, not speaking unless I can improve on that silence.