Sometimes I like sitting at the McDonald's outside the mall, daydreaming away an hour or so. With a container of their terrible coffee in front of me, and my notebook; waiting for some lost soul to come in, whose story
I can tell. Can't say much about the young people working behind the counter; with their clear skin, bright smiles, and quick to serve willingness in matching uniforms, as they don't seem to have any drama in their lives. Neither does the mother with two tykes who have already taken the heads off their McToys, nor the older gentleman tut-tutting over the local newspaper while ever so slowly consuming a salad topped with chicken strips, nor even the teenagers making out in a corner booth, while a single ice cream melts into glop in front of them. Some days everything appears copacetic with everybody, and it's not as if I have a writer's block, I mean, my pen is ready and willing to embellish any poor soul's miserable existence into a substantial fiction; it just seems at times nobody around me is suffering sufficiently. Then, I see my watch reads 8:06, and I wonder if it is safe to go home yet.