I see you outside Rick's Iron Skillet on Sundays. You are always sitting on top of the newspaper rack waiting, in the cold, and stare blankly out into the wind. Wrinkled clothes, tattered jeans, old shoes, and a weathered face. I wonder what is on your mind, if you are happy and content, or if you are sad and angry at the world. The look on your face is so hard to read. Is it years of not caring or way to many years of trying to care?
Eventually, you come in to eat. You look over the menu with eyes that need correction. You tidy your table as if it were your own. The space you occupy is silent, neat, and orderly. After reviewing the menu you always order extra gravy. There is a pattern to how you eat, like a puzzle being put together. I can tell it is laid out exactly in your mind the way you want it.
What is your story? I would love to know. I wonder if you wait there and eventually gather enough money to come inside for a warm meal. You are silent except for when you order. Do you have family? Are you from here? Are you educated/ experienced? Are you conversational? I just wonder....what is your story?
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