The sun has set. It's a hot night, breathless and humid, and crickets whine like auditory static in the car park. Orange light leaks thick as honey from the windows and of the restaurant, and the smell of tepid ham rises into the blue night air. You can feel your pulse in your temples, a steady, accelerating flick.
moving towards the welcoming light, for a moment it all flickers. The light is gone, all is dark, only burning after-images in your vision, shaped like the silhouette of the mascot perched on the roof. Then back, warm and ham-scented and drawing you to it, step by step. Your hand on the door- again, for a moment all is dark, through the stark after-images you think you see the restaurant deserted, drifts of dust around the counter, slumped, empty figures in the plastic seats, and that soft and constant tune, Yumbo, there's no need to feel down...
The restaurant is warm, and welcoming. you blink many times, and the light is constant as the pulse hammering in your head, as the muffled scream of insects outside, as the music on the speakers overhead of which you can make out no single word.
"Can I take your order please?"
You try to meet the cashier's eye. They have no face, they aren't there, the restaurant is dark and empty and you plant your hands on the counter and can feel the grit and dust of years, the plastic veneer splintering and flaking, sticking to your sweaty palms.
"Yumbo, pick yourself off the ground..."
You barely recognise it as your own voice, but the cashier smiles, and places it in front of you on the counter, neatly wrapped, ready the moment you spoke. You know they smiled though you haven't looked. you can feel the pulse in your temple like a pick, chipping away.
"Will there be anything else today?"
You try to unpeel your clammy hands from the counter. You can still feel the paint chips and grit, though the counter is shiny ketchup-red plastic under your hands.