I'd added too much milk to the coffee, and let it sit too long; ruminating on the sights from the smudge-filtered window that walled in the booth I was sitting in, thinking I might, somehow, spot some I-spy hidden truth carefully lodged amongst the snow-caked boredom of Hayward, Wisconsin, some cipher used by the cosmos the way Guy Williams used to leave the sign of Zorro in the flesh of his enemies with a few elegantly adroit whips of his rapier, had drawn me away from my lunch. And the coffee. Now it was tepid and shared a cloudy hue with the puddles of congealing earth outside, as Old Man Winter had decided his stay in Wisconsin had run quite long enough, thank you, and packed his snow and his arctic airstreams and waddled his gruff ass out to wreak misery on some other suchplace where people needed to be reminded how it was to lose the ability to blink while walking into the wind.
It was the first week of May for Chrissakes.
But for the moment the sky was as blue and the sea in a Hiroshige print, the sun was pleasantly baking the left side of my face, and the lunch was gratis, so I did what anyone oughtta do: kept my mouth shut and enjoyed it.
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