Sitting in an old booth, at a table whose tablecloth doesn’t quite match with the rest of the decor, I observe; becoming a fly on the wall.
The building is smaller on the inside than it appears from the street, the majority of the building being a kitchen and a set of halls that lead to a loft apartment. The light pink-tinted walls are covered with Coca-Cola signs, old movie posters, and vintage food trays in no particular order. In the front corner, there is an old jukebox that I believe hasn’t been played in a couple of years. As you walk from the front door to the other side of the dining lounge on the black and white tile floor, there is a small counter with a few stools that I like to think of as the “ice cream bar”. A shake machine, glasses, ice cream bowls, coffee cups, toppings, and a coffee maker crowed the counters along the bar in a tidy mess.
The smell of home-cooked food fills the air around me as I rest my steaming coffee cup back on the slightly sticky table. All around me there is a quiet hum of conversation and the occasional too loud laugh will ring through the small lounge. It is a happy place; a place where the local townsfolk gather to find out the latest gossip, where children flock to the ice cream bar, and travelers go to enjoy a meal and decide where they will go next.