Lying Down on the Floor of a Waffle House Kemi Omisore
I get in the car. The excitement that buzzes down my spine is so sharp that it brings goosebumps to my skin. I’ve always loved driving. I like the sound of the turn signals, the motion of turning the wheel, feeling my foot on the pedal and knowing that I am in complete control. But this excitement is different. It is sad, bordering on pathetic, like being excited for fish stick day at school because it’s the most edible of the options. My giddiness embarrasses me, but it is there nonetheless. I turn the key in the ignition. The sun is coming down, right in my eyeline. I have to put down my sun visor, which makes it harder to see the road, but it’s alright. There are no cars on the road to worry about, so I can cruise down with my foot laying on the pedal. Once in a while a car will drive down in the opposite direction and my hands tighten on the wheel. I know what I’m doing on the road, but what about them? Where are they going? Instinctively, my body turns to face them, to peek into someone else’s life. But the car windows are tinted black, and they slip past me and away by the time I try to take a closer look. When I pull my car into the parking lot, the sun is down. Time has narrowed to the color of the sky, the last tangible thing I can hold in my hands. Why bother calling something a Wednesday or Friday when each day plods along at the same monotonous pace, where the sun rises and falls but the warmth doesn’t reach past the window? It could be hours later, maybe a day. Whatever time it is, there is enough sun to shine a sliver of light on the building sign: Waffle House. It’s not a new building, or a pretty one for that matter. There are no flashing lights on the red awning, no tall sign broadcasted to the drivers that used to pour down the road. Just big, bold, black letters that spell “WAFFLE HOUSE” against a dull yellow background. Even though there are windows wrapped around the building, it is almost impossible to see the inside. I open the door. Surprisingly, it is unlocked. The emptiness feels like a being of its own, filling up the space and breathing down my neck. I fumble to a light switch and turn on the lights. None of them come on except for some of the orbs hanging from the ceiling, one of them flickering. From what I can see in the faint light, the restaurant is cleaner than I expected. The bar counter is cleared of clutter, plates and salt and pepper shakers stacked against the wall. The chairs are
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