The café wasn’t as good as he remembered it. He was indifferent to their affection for the old internet radio, or their antique twenty-second century television. There was nothing appealing about the workers coming in for breakfast, throwing their sweaty caps onto their silverware without hesitation. Derric was here for the frappes, which were little more than chocolate milk served in sloped glasses. The ancient bell rang from the kitchen, and the cook’s shout reached his booth. His organic wheat pancakes would have to be the best he’d ever eaten to make up for the frappe.

“Derric,” his breakfast partner interrupted, digging a fork in her syrup laden waffle, “do you listen to anyone when they speak?”

“We have a more dire issue at hand than your genetic creations,” he reminded her, pointing to his glass. “This has less cubic volume than the plastic cups they used to have here.”
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[Copyrighted © July 17 2015, J.M. Blute]