In
this endless sunset that enveloped the restaurant, no customers ever came. Instead, my friend Marietta, the hostess,
usually sat at one of the perfectly made tables by herself, doing paperwork of
a kind we never discussed. Only the fading
light that rippled through those whispering trees dared enter the large
T-shaped room. Why were there no
customers? On my previous visits I’d
only seen Marietta in that hushed hour of solitude. Like so many other questions I must have
forgotten to ask her this one, too.
Now, in the pantry, I stretched
myself and without thinking remembered how to fly—I began running until
suddenly my wings caught air and lifted me off of the hardwood floor. From the kitchen I turned down the narrow,
artificially lit hallway that led into the dining room. No one waited for me; not even Marietta sat
at her usual table. Only I existed,
passing through, a lightning bug in disguise.
But
while the restaurant was familiar, it was not safe. I would need to find some other shelter, to
clear my head, maybe to sleep and wake up again as something else. In the lobby I held my breath and squeezed
through the narrowest of gaps between the locked double doors. When I exhaled again I rolled, tumbleweed
style, into the magnificent hall that joined the restaurant to the great
corridor.
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