Seats were scarce in the café as queues of tray-laden customers circled the room looking for a place to park. Those already seated sat smugly with their meals. There were a few plush couches in the establishment whose patrons would leisurely, aristocratically pick at their lunches. Even in a greasy spoon you’ll find snobs.
One window stool facing out to the main road stood empty. This sticking out like a sore thumb location was sub-prime. Windows to the world are for writers only. From this spot they can observe humanity in all its guises giving them reams of future material. I gave it a miss. Continue reading “Withering Heights”