25 - Maeve
I sipped the cold water from the slim glass the weary waitress had given me. The Saturday foot traffic was picking up, white-hatted tourists trailing sulky, black-capped teens, their ears plugged with loose rock music. One wood craft shop was closed, the vitrines like wide, dark eyes. As a long-time big city dweller, I wondered if the big mall had drained a part of the clientele.
A smell of greasy home-fried potatoes filled the diner, squeezed in the low-budget area of the posh Ocean View street between a sports shop and a daytime parking next to the public beach. The place reminded me of similar fast-food joints I had encountered in my peregrinations, with plastic benches and two rows of chapped Formica tables with ketchup-relish bottles propped at the end, noisy kitchen and
