first time in second person

The people walking by the diner’s window seem hallow. A baby cries in her stroller; the mother doesn’t blink. She passes a man whose shoes are untied. He pauses, prepares to say something, but sighs instead. A boy flies down the street like an airplane, humming and swooping and shouting. His father rushes to him, tugging the plane wings hard. He gives the child a silent reprimand with his eyes narrowed and lips slammed shut. He glances both ways up the street, head whipping back and forth checking for witnesses.

Your mind has left the diner, and you stop with mouth posed for a sip. You are watching outside, a TV drama on mute. The chair is hard beneath you, and you weigh the odds of getting a splinter if you get up to pay your check. The heat from the mug is burning your hand, but you don’t sit it down. Your free hand traces the ring of dried coffee on the table. A black apron appears next to you, hands you a cinnamon mint attached to a receipt. The woman beneath the apron has scribbled “Thanks ☺” next to the total. As you fish though business cards and phone numbers in your wallet, you realize that the diner is silent. Those seated in the booths around you wear the same concerned, ready-to-speak expression as the man with untied shoes. They are staring at the fuzzy television hovering above the counter. Waitresses are standing below, head back and mouth open like baby birds.

On the screen, a skyscraper glows like a birthday candle. The image cuts and begins again. An airplane comes at the building. People in the restaurant look away. The building glows like a birthday candle. Your wallet falls to the table. You crush the mint between your teeth. You stand up and get a splinter.