An Olympic Breakfast

Mauriah Johnson, Assistant Arts & Entertainment Editor


An Olympic Breakfast

“How’s everything?” she quickly asked each table in the exact same monotone.

Her midnight black, messy ponytail trailed two swings behind her every step, as she casually speed walked to the kitchen to pick up the next order.

“She could at least switch it up,” whispered the unique, curly-haired business woman to her partner as they giggled, watching the waitress ask the same question like she was reading a script.

“Hey! You wanna know a beautiful place to live?” a scruffy man in his late thirties asked the short sandy-haired elderly woman sitting across from him, who seemed to rather finish the eco-friendly crossword on her paper placemat, as they waited for their Friday morning coffee.

“Waterbury!” he said, despite being ignored.

As she rolled her kind eyes in disbelief, the at least thirty-year-old vintage AMI jukebox to her right caught her attention.

She reached into the pocket of her scuffed, brown, hooded fur coat and put on her seemingly ‘Christmas Tree Shop’ readers and began reading some of the tracks: “The Boy Is Mine” by Brandy and Monica, “If It Makes You Happy” by Sheryl Crow and of course, “Burning Love” by Elvis Presley.

Unable to decide, the smell of her hot black coffee consumed the air and took away her train of thought.

“Here’s your coffee,” said the waitress, as she carefully made sure not to spill the cautiously hot beverage on her all black slip-resistant Superstar Adidas sneakers, as she swiftly walked away.

Silence took over their turquoise-colored booth, and with each sip of fresh hot coffee tingling on their tongues, the caffeine made its way to their nervous system and they were at peace.

“He’s interesting,” the fashionable red-lipped woman in dancing heels in the next booth said as she watched from her view in the back through the clear looking glass.

He stood outside, patiently waiting in front of his classic 1980’s Buick Regal that looked older than him, in his knee-high polka-dot and stripped socks, grandpa-style flat cap and worn loafers.

She couldn’t take her honey eyes off of him.

Captivated by his surprising appearance, she observed intensely as he placed his hand palm-down under his chin, extending his four fingers with his thumb tucked in and waggling his fingers like the secret sign of the Loyal Order of Woodchucks in the “Little Rascals” film.

Assuming he could see her from the glass windows, she returned the wave only to realize it was for the woman pulling into the parking lot in her exotic blue Toyota Rav4 truck.

Sadness peaked from her eyes.

“India! Africa! Europe!” shouted the scruffy man, taking the attention off of the sad fashionable woman, as he continued to pitch beautiful places for the elderly woman to live, while she continuously ignored him, finishing up the last of her crossword puzzle.

He took one last sip of his coffee.

“Alright Mom, I’m going to go pay. Be right back!” he said, as he left the elderly woman there.

She stared at the sad, fashionable woman, long enough for her to look to her left and notice those kind eyes gazing upon her waiting for a response.

They shared a quick smile, the kind without teeth, but when the heart speaks.

“Hey, Mom! Ready?” the scruffy man asked as he finished paying at the host stand.

She silently nodded.

The sad, fashionable woman kept her honey eyes locked on her new elderly friend as she placed her readers back into her timeworn brown pockets, glided from her booth and quietly paced to her son, as her old black New Balances scuffed behind her.

“See you soon,” she said as she waved her caramel hand in the softest goodbye to the elderly woman whom she may never see again.

After mixing up the checks at the table twice, and completely forgetting her chocolate milk, the waitress approaches the sad fashionable woman’s table one last time.

“How’s everything?”