There was an old woman in the corner booth talking to herself while munching on a piece of wheat toast. Every once in a while, she would glance over a... the entrance as if she were expecting someone to come through the door. A balding man sitting at the breakfast counter, his bulk spilling over the red vinyl stool, shoveled in a double order of ‘2s’, 2 pancakes, 2 eggs, 2 sausages or bacon. On the stool next to him lay a cane that he obviously used for walking. I had to wonder if it would truly. She'd even lit a stick of Nag Champa, which was smoldering away nicely on the bookshelf, a delicate tendril of smoke curling around the Stephen King and Clive Barker paperbacks."Want some wine?" she asked. I nodded, and she turned to the dresser, and poured me a glass of red wine out of an already opened bottle. Kate's still nineteen, just like me, and all the other people in this apartment, but her brother works at a liquor store by campus, and brings her bottles of wine as long as she. More

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