never a consideration of mine.
Mike responds, “As long as it’s a short one, I can do it. We’re having some people over later to watch the Cowboys, and I need to help Therese get some things done around the house. What do you say I meet you at your place a little after one? Will that work?”
“That’s great,” I say. “It’ll give me a chance to grab a bite. Thanks, man. I owe you.”
I hang up the phone and look at the clock again. It is several hours until one o’clock, and I am still not comfortable hanging out in the apartment. I quickly go to my closet and put on some running clothes. I grab my shoes and turn them over. There is very little dirt on them, and the dirt on them is dry, almost dusty. That’s a good sign. I probably didn’t run yesterday . . . at least not on the trail. I wonder if I went to a CrossFit class. My legs do feel a little sore, but that could have been from what happened in Lucifer’s lair.
After getting dressed, I grab my phone, watch, money holder, and apartment key and head out the door to the elevators. I bolt out of the elevator into the lobby, barely recognizing the twenty-something girl behind the desk telling me to have a nice morning.
I am surprisingly hungry, and coffee sounds great. I rarely make time for a hot breakfast, but today is an exception. I try to put on my watch as I walk, but where I would normally strap it on my left arm, I now have a sore—Lucifer’s mark. I attempt awkwardly to strap it to my right arm before deciding to stick it in my shorts pocket. Running shorts don’t allow much room for personal items, and the pocket is almost overloaded with my money clip and keys.
I walk a few blocks to a small café, Bluebonnets and Beer, which the locals have shortened to Bonnets’ Beer. I sit down at a booth and am quickly approached by a waitress. The place is mostly empty except for an older hippy couple sitting a few tables over and a college couple whose body language suggests they are in love. The waitress is young and pleasant, with a spattering of tattoos down her arm and some piercings in her brow. It is nice to hear a sweet voice talking to me. It’s a stark contrast from what I’ve been through. I have her bring me some coffee as I look over the menu. When she comes back with my coffee, I am still staring blankly at the menu. I haven’t read a word. My mind is focused on a single thing: Lucifer. After a few indecisive seconds, I ask her to bring me one of her favorites, as long as it has bacon and overhard eggs. She obliges happily.
The meal smells wonderful when she sets it in front of me. She has chosen well: chicken fried steak covered in egg and some gravy. On the side are several pieces of bacon and two slices of thick toast. I compliment her. She asks if there is anything else she can get for me, but I don’t answer. I am already lost in a memory.
I’m thinking about a time when my parents took me to breakfast. I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. My mother was lovely, and my father doted on her. She was taken from him long before he was ready to accept it, long before I was ready to accept it. I couldn’t understand how a loving God would do that to a family. I couldn’t understand how my dad could still love his God after that. Her passing was part of the reason my father and our relationship meant so much to me. He was all I had. I loved our occasional trips for breakfast. It always seemed more relaxed to me. For some reason, my parents would act silly at breakfast.
I finish the meal in a fog, though I am present enough to realize the food is surprisingly delicious. It is far more food than I need, but I eat it all. It has been so long since I had a slow Sunday breakfast, but I vow to do it more frequently in the future. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, I leave the waitress a twenty-dollar tip, knowing that it will probably make her morning. I applaud my generosity.
I step out of the restaurant and
Mike responds, “As long as it’s a short one, I can do it. We’re having some people over later to watch the Cowboys, and I need to help Therese get some things done around the house. What do you say I meet you at your place a little after one? Will that work?”
“That’s great,” I say. “It’ll give me a chance to grab a bite. Thanks, man. I owe you.”
I hang up the phone and look at the clock again. It is several hours until one o’clock, and I am still not comfortable hanging out in the apartment. I quickly go to my closet and put on some running clothes. I grab my shoes and turn them over. There is very little dirt on them, and the dirt on them is dry, almost dusty. That’s a good sign. I probably didn’t run yesterday . . . at least not on the trail. I wonder if I went to a CrossFit class. My legs do feel a little sore, but that could have been from what happened in Lucifer’s lair.
After getting dressed, I grab my phone, watch, money holder, and apartment key and head out the door to the elevators. I bolt out of the elevator into the lobby, barely recognizing the twenty-something girl behind the desk telling me to have a nice morning.
I am surprisingly hungry, and coffee sounds great. I rarely make time for a hot breakfast, but today is an exception. I try to put on my watch as I walk, but where I would normally strap it on my left arm, I now have a sore—Lucifer’s mark. I attempt awkwardly to strap it to my right arm before deciding to stick it in my shorts pocket. Running shorts don’t allow much room for personal items, and the pocket is almost overloaded with my money clip and keys.
I walk a few blocks to a small café, Bluebonnets and Beer, which the locals have shortened to Bonnets’ Beer. I sit down at a booth and am quickly approached by a waitress. The place is mostly empty except for an older hippy couple sitting a few tables over and a college couple whose body language suggests they are in love. The waitress is young and pleasant, with a spattering of tattoos down her arm and some piercings in her brow. It is nice to hear a sweet voice talking to me. It’s a stark contrast from what I’ve been through. I have her bring me some coffee as I look over the menu. When she comes back with my coffee, I am still staring blankly at the menu. I haven’t read a word. My mind is focused on a single thing: Lucifer. After a few indecisive seconds, I ask her to bring me one of her favorites, as long as it has bacon and overhard eggs. She obliges happily.
The meal smells wonderful when she sets it in front of me. She has chosen well: chicken fried steak covered in egg and some gravy. On the side are several pieces of bacon and two slices of thick toast. I compliment her. She asks if there is anything else she can get for me, but I don’t answer. I am already lost in a memory.
I’m thinking about a time when my parents took me to breakfast. I couldn’t have been more than ten years old. My mother was lovely, and my father doted on her. She was taken from him long before he was ready to accept it, long before I was ready to accept it. I couldn’t understand how a loving God would do that to a family. I couldn’t understand how my dad could still love his God after that. Her passing was part of the reason my father and our relationship meant so much to me. He was all I had. I loved our occasional trips for breakfast. It always seemed more relaxed to me. For some reason, my parents would act silly at breakfast.
I finish the meal in a fog, though I am present enough to realize the food is surprisingly delicious. It is far more food than I need, but I eat it all. It has been so long since I had a slow Sunday breakfast, but I vow to do it more frequently in the future. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, I leave the waitress a twenty-dollar tip, knowing that it will probably make her morning. I applaud my generosity.
I step out of the restaurant and
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