Barbara, glad the talk last night got you thinking about Mom's Cafe. Scary fun... And your prompt scribble. "His dreadlocks dangle out and wave in the onshore wind..." Beautiful image, Barbara. Very assured and evocative.
So anyway, this is the beginning of the story I mentioned last night:
It was a country church, plain and self-absorbed, sitting off the country road. Stone monuments dotted the mowed lot next to it. The morning was, so far, cool and overcast, with a fine, irregular rain coming down. Thomas pulled off the road's patchwork asphalt and into the parking lot. A lot of cars, he thought, for a quarter to eight.
He parked his Cadillac, switched off the laboring motor, and sat for a moment in the penetrating silence. He ran his hand over the arc of the steering wheel, then got out and walked across the the pebbly, uneven lot toward the church. On his right, a slow moving couple made their own approach. Thomas nodded and said, "Good morning" in what he hoped was an optimistic tone. The old couple returned his greeting, pleasant, though tentative. Who is this stranger in our midst?
Bob
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