The Old Man at the Cafe

I was sitting at a diner this morning working my way through a body sculpting breakfast of bacon and cheddar omelet with hash browns and a side of biscuits and gravy. Breakfast was washed down with enough hot coffee to fill the gas tank on my Sportster outside.

I felt sorry for the really old guy facing me from the far end of the counter. Years of hard living and bad choices were etched in the deep lines on his face. His long white beard provided ample evidence that his best years were lost on the road behind him.

Then the waitress sprayed glass cleaner on what I now realized was a mirror at the far end of the counter and my whole day kind of turned sour.