Fried Brains

He sits at his favorite table in the diner, against the left wall, in the middle.

He holds a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

He smiles to himself, a private joke, his eyes focused on some unknown interest.

Another cigarette, a refill on the coffee.

He starts to rock, first only his head moves, forward and back, then his shoulders follow.

He sets the cup down and puts the cigarette in the ash tray.

The movement continues, now with his hands rubbing the top of his thighs in rhythm with the rocking.

His smile widens, showing his top front teeth, the smile pinned in place on each side by a dimple, his top lip fringed with a thin light brown mustache.

He continues to focus his pale blue eyes on some unseen amusement, perhaps a memory of his wilder days, when he was eager and willing to try any drug offered him.

Back when he was still able to hold a job and a conversation.

Later, guided by some internal clock, he stops rocking and asks the waitress for a refill, lights another cigarette and spends the rest of the afternoon in deep conversation with himself.

He laughs, sometimes choking on the smoke of his cigarette as if something funny had caught him unprepared.

He acknowledges the waitress when she tells him it's time for him to leave, but slips into that other world as she turns to walk away.

Learn more about this author, Maren Sage.
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