Late. She’s late again. I had specifically requested that if we must eat in this mediocre quality high school haunt, we must at least do so before the younger patrons arrive and mar the calm. There are few things so horrid as waiting amongst politely disinterested folks in a dingy café reeking of grease.
Beyond contemplating my own unfortunate situation, there are only those of my equally unfortunate companions: the few bored workers and other customers. I am sad for them, frequenting this dreary little hole of saturated fats well into their sixties. Is this town utterly devoid of sit-in buffets where they may consume without limits at their extreme leisure? I will not contemplate them longer, the thoughts are depressing.
There does appear to be an event in the setting up stage on the street. A flower stand, by the looks of it. I would be tempted to buy her some, but this recurring lateness, particularly in such a miserable little place as this, has quite put me off it.
“What, pray tell, is this setting up of booths in the street? A fair of some kind?”
I entertain the possibility of there being food to eat which may be better than what is served in here, and laugh a little at the likelihood of enticing her out of here to get it; giving him a moment to process the question. It does not seem as though he is used to either foreigners or their complex questions; though by his accent I would judge him to be recently immigrated himself.
“Farmers’ market, happens every Thursday.”
Created: Aug 01, 2010Document Media