Waffle House Blues

I finally dug myself out of self-imposed hibernation tonight and drove to the nearest shopping center to try and find a pair of warm shoes. No luck. My second errand took me to Piccadilly's to pick up some takeout for dinner. Closed.

Since Waffle House was right across the street, I decided to stop at the place that never closes. While I was waiting for my food, I began to wonder if there is anything sadder than sitting alone at Waffle House on a Saturday night?

An anonymous sea of nameless faces, watching traffic and humanity flow by.

Music playing erratically on the jukebox; an ancient couple who looked as though they had been together forever; a young family; a sixtyish guy with red-rimmed eyes, wearing far too much handmade jewelry, all poorly crafted (I’m sure there’s a story there.); a few young men, half neatly dressed, the rest struggling to keep their pants at a legal level; a friendly young waitress still wearing braces on her teeth; a little older and slightly more jaded waitress; a cook who looked as though he was barely old enough to drive ~ all playing out this little vignette.

I think the saddest part is they were still busy when I left an hour later.