Flash Friday in Flash Friday

I went in the coffee house to duck the rain. Ten years ago it would have looked like a fifties diner. It didn’t. It was faux hipster with antiqued and shellacked wonderland posters. I paid the lady and filled a cup and sat near the window, shook off my hat and set it on the other chair.

This young man is sitting at the next table. I checked to see my back was to a wall and my line of sight, but not for someone else facing me. It’s awkward. I have my habits. It’s awkward. We nod at one another and he looks out the window. I looked out the window.

He’s a young man, mid twenties if I had to guess, long dark curls under a beat up black fedora. It looked like he picked this place on purpose, maybe not, and the scruffy kid beard, maybe, and maybe he wasn’t faux, I don’t know what makes a hipster anymore. I know you can buy a new fedora at target and nobody ever put up wonderland posters this far inland.

There’s a young woman sloshing through the rain, her collar is up and her hat is a leather paperboy cap. She’s walking a black and white mutt, some mix of terrier and other terrier. Fedora boy smiles, stands up, opens the door for her. They touch lightly, kiss quickly, the dog shakes. The lady at the counter frowns but doesn’t say anything. He shows her a seat and goes to pay the lady for a coffee and a muffin.

“I had this dog once,” I said to the back of her head “Big strong dog, never backed down from a chase, never showed submission, but thunderstorms? He’d climb up on my lap like a scared kitten.”

She turned to smile at me. I put my hand down for the dog to sniff it.

“Good boy,” I said.

The boy returned. The dog laid down. I continued to look out the window. I never had a dog and thunderstorms didn’t scare him. I listened to them talk for a bit then just got lost in looking out the window. Every time the thunder clapped the dog would whimper a bit.