Breakfast Nook

I am sitting in a breakfast nook when I find that I am inside out.

I am seated on a sort of banquette, but wider and more plush than those found in a Denny’s or a Hometown Buffet. It doesn't smell like a Hometown Buffet either, except for a faint plasticky flavor to the air, which at a Hometown Buffet would be emanating from the vinyl upholstery of said banquette seating as it is compressed and re-inflated by the crush and absence of ample adult rears and children’s feet. Here, though, the smell is most likely the not-unexpected side effect of a cheap automatic dishwasher unit, coil too hot for the correspondingly priced plastic-wear on the bottom rack.

I find that I am inside out, and the petroleum smell hanging in the air is promoted from annoyance to a vague concern, as I do not know the effects of such molecular aggressions on my now-vulnerable, now-outward innards. Being that I am inside out, a Hometown Buffet may have been a more appropriate choice, as a vinyl banquette is surely easier to clean than a plush one, and yellow no less. I am sure the staff there deals with spills of all varieties regularly. I imagine the frequency of vomit to be higher there than, say, a Marie Calendar’s—but it’s possible I only have this impression because of a story once told to me about the ritualistic feasting of an entire water polo team.

Anyway, they start with sawdust.

Words by: Adria Kloke
Illustration by: Seth Barnard