Flash Fiction Friday: The Last Booth

I’m back! It’s been three weeks, but I’ve returned with a new flash fiction. I’ve now conquered the opening line that had me so stymied on my last attempt, and it feels good.

THE LAST BOOTH

There were four booths along the restaurant’s front window.

The first one held an elderly couple, worn but sturdy, deep in the throes of routine.

The second was populated by a family. A mom and dad and what seemed to be twenty youngsters, though the exact number was hard to pin down since they never sat still.

In the third booth were a boy and a girl, high-school age, sitting together on the same side of the table.

The fourth booth was empty. The original shine of the seats’ red vinyl had been dulled by age and polished to a shine again by thousands of occupants. The bright afternoon sunlight highlighted lazy dust motes in the air on its way down to the table.

From behind the register, Burt squinted impatiently at this last booth. It was hard to tell, because impatience in a staid and glacial man like Burt seemed like downright placid patience in the rest of us, but it was there: a quiet sense of expectation.

Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow something would happen in that booth that would change the world forever. The knowledge had come to Burt when he was hiking a nearby mountain forty years ago. A vision of sorts, though there was no visible quality to it that he could ever describe. It was why he’d bought this land. Why he’d built this restaurant and that booth in the first place.

Forty years. He knew he wasn’t crazy. Tomorrow he would discover the meaning of his life.

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