Seaside Lunch Spot Observation

Today was one of those days when I had very little energy and needed something to lift my spirits. But how do you do that in a small town like ours?

Most of the time, I just get in the car and drive without a destination in mind. I just trust the car to take me where I need to be.

The sun was shining far more than I was comfortable with. Somehow, I ended up on the seaside terrace of a small lunch spot known for simple everyday meals like beef patties and fish casseroles.

I never know where to sit. There are always regulars outside smoking and talking loudly. I eventually picked a table in the only small spot of shade I could find. Downside was that a large ashtray sat in the middle of it. Cigarette butts stuck out of it like crooked fingers.

To order, you have to go inside.

Behind the counter stood a boy who seemed very young. He looked at me with a pair of uncertain eyes and wrote down my order, as if he had only recently learned how. Every now and then he paused, writing slowly with a shaky hand, checking each letter as if it might come out wrong otherwise. Still, he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

A little later, two baked potatoes arrived on my table beneath an alarming amount of ham filling. The worn wooden block with my table number was still sitting beside my plate. I expected someone to come back for it.

Nobody did.

The terrace remained quiet. The smokers smoked. Seagulls waited patiently for their turn to pick apart my lunch. The wooden block stayed on my table for the rest of the meal.

When I left, it was still there.

I memorized the number 64. Don’t know why that felt important.