Sat. Coffee in a Dinner 82 years old.

The coffee is hot and seems even hotter on this rainy, cloudy Saturday. The water sliding down the windows give the landscape outside a surreal futuristic look and the one or two people that are brave enough to come through this water fall appear as they have survived two weeks in the Amazon. The staff stands around waiting for customers in a battle against boredom; their blue t shirts, with a smiling bird ion an apron on the front all clean and new contrasting with the eighty year old décor in a poetic way. The steam from the coffee floats up with it rich aroma as the sound of the rain beats the ground. What has placed me here thirty miles North West of that drowned island overlooking a street were buckers play and people hardly ever stop to breathe. The coffee has been filled four times now and the staff keeps asking if I wish for more. I waiting again for time and striking up conversation with the restaurant staff. One asks were three are today. I look up with my mouth open and no words will come out. Memories of a time when we all three sat with me here at that table over there. For some reason we don’t sit there any more even when we come together anymore. I wonder why?