Let me tell you a little story about a man, well, you know it’s me, don’t you?

It was his fourth day in the central Florida motel breakfast room. By this point, he had established a routine and thus felt safe, comfortable, and secure. The space, just off the lobby, opened at 6 am, and he was usually the first in line for coffee.

Before he got his cup of Dark Roast, he had staked a claim on his favorite table, with an open computer and notebook.

From this perch, he could observe other creatures making waffles, one of his favorite breakfast foods, and he thought, if he can do it, so can I.

So he did. Malted vanilla was his choice. Two minutes and 30 seconds later, he settled into his seat. Even the sealed butter and syrup lids with the perforated corners came loose with surprising ease, pinched by his 76-year-old thumb and index finger. And today, another preference, link sausage. He readied the knife and fork, as waffles cool down quickly. Everything in his little world was perfect.

Until they showed up. He was bent over, shuffling with a walker. She, also stooped, was scouting out tables close to the waffle machine. An even older-looking couple had alighted on the only other open table.

The woman kept scanning the room, and her husband lingered next to the griddles.

What should the man do? He thought, Why me, Lord? Am I my brother’s keeper? Out, out damned spot. It’s her vulture eye. And, damn!

Finally, the man gathered his breakfast, computer, and notebook, and moved to a counter chair and made contact with the woman whose actual eye was more dove than vulture.

The man’s first bite of waffle was cold, which served him well.

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