The coffee is too cold.
It's always too cold at Chomsky Coffee but this time he doesn’t ask for a fresh cup. It's not worth the scowl of the head waitress or the risk of his next cup being accompanied by spit.
Outside, the rain pelts rapidly down. The world is a dismal, wraith-like place, slated in shades of abysmal gray. Two narrow beams of alternating light (one of blue, the other of red) splash across the dreary boulevard. Though the sirens have long-since stopped, the police remain.
From the safety of the café, he's watched on-lookers come and go. They pause at the site of the accident, giving the morbid scene an ephemeral glance before moving on, like children passing exhibits in a museum. A few remain clustered in as close as the authorities will allow them, but with the increasing rain speed their numbers are fast diluting.
The driver of the ’97 Firebird has been arguing with the cops for almost ten minutes now. From his window seat, he can't actually hear the words, but the man’s violent hand gestures and facial expressions tell the tale. It was the pedestrian's fault, surely. He was the one who had walked in front of the car.
He's not going to win. You don’t cream a pedestrian at 70 mph and then just stroll away without doing serious jail time.
As the ambulance wails up to the scene and the paramedics pile out, he turns away from the window, looks back at the cold cup of coffee, and wishes it were warmer. The extended sitting period has made it somewhat thick and soupy. He crinkles his nose distastefully.
“Shame about that,” comments a man from the table next to him. With alabaster white skin and bruise-like black sags under his eyes, the florescent lights make it almost painful to look at him. The pallid man holds out his cup and the waitress fills it with fresh, steaming coffee. Taking a sip, the man asks, “Guy was a regular, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” replies the waitress, picking up the chilled cup without a downward glance. “Bastard was always whining about the temperature of his coffee.”
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