08 | Afternoon Waffles

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SONG FOR THE CHAPTER

Amsterdam  by Gregory Alan Isakov

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The sun is beating on our backs while Casper and I eagerly ride down the street on our bikes. I smile inwardly, glad to finally feel the heat of the summer against my skin. The gentle breeze wafts through my hair and I pedal faster to meet his speed. My excitement to reach our destination rapidly grows and I almost find myself becoming vaguely optimistic. Everything about Casper and his spontaneous plans just continues to surprise me. 

Since we left my house, we haven't talked much, nor have we discussed the matters at hand. I think we're both simply waiting for the right moment. I'm trying my best to remain calm, although that's been rather difficult. The anticipation is becoming uncomfortable and my patience is fleeting. Hopefully, we can have this conversation soon.

After traveling for a short while, we turn down a narrow road called Sunshine Street. The winding path curves along the mountainside. The vivid landscape is beautiful; lush plants surround the scenic route and colorful flowers bloom across the grassy areas. The street twists through the forest of blossoming trees - their petals and leaves dancing in the wind. 

Eventually, we approach a humble establishment. The cozy cabin is located on the edge of the mountain cliff and overlooks the glimmering ocean. We dismount our bicycles when we arrive at our destination. I leisurely follow behind Casper as he wanders towards the entrance. I glance over my shoulder and read the outdoor sign that identifies the cottage as The Lighthouse Diner.

 I glance over my shoulder and read the outdoor sign that identifies the cottage as The Lighthouse Diner

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With a courteous smile, Casper politely opens the entrance door for me like the perfect gentleman. I saunter inside the diner and look around the room; it's quaint yet comfortable. There are very few bistro tables and seats - all of which are unoccupied. I'm surprised that the establishment is completely empty; one would think this adorable place would attract more costumers. However, that being said, I've lived in Seabrooke my entire life and I've never heard of this restaurant. 

"I've been coming here since I was a kid," he tells me, "It's my favorite place to eat in this entire town... You'll find out why once you taste the food."

I press my lips together and nod my head. I'm trying to remain casual, but I doubt my performance is very convincing. He must notice how anxious I am for the explanation behind everything; not to mention that only a few weeks ago, it felt as if my entire life was crumbling apart. Casper, on the other hand, seems to be maintaining his composure much better than I am. Perhaps he's already figured out what he's going to say; I'm still grasping for words.

The ceiling fans gently circulate a crisp breeze throughout the room, the draft neutralizing the profuse summer heat. We stand by the front door, patiently waiting for someone to provide us with their service. Suddenly, the sound of clacking heels can be heard advancing toward us.

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