I quickened my steps and caught the dark glass doors. Instantly, I understood why the curvy woman—clad in a white hijab and long dark dress—hadn't bothered to wait for me, although I was not more than three steps behind. The double doors were incredibly heavy, far too heavy for a restaurant. Besides, what was the need for closing the doors of a restaurant? In this restaurant closing the doors appeared to be a convention.
Possibly, she noticed that I drooled over her figure, and it upset her. Pitiful, weak man—I constantly fail to overcome the sinful nature of being human. I end up creating a few quick, nasty scenes in my head.
When I stepped into the restaurant, all three hands of the clock on the metallic wall struck twelve. The dining room could easily be mistaken for a spaceship interior, if not for the rustic wooden floorboards. I shuddered the moment I saw the ceiling—a compilation of huge rocks held together, perhaps, by glue. It resembled a tray of eggs.
I shook off the thought that one rock might fall and crush me. Whatever mind-blowing design the architect had intended to achieve with these odd combinations, I failed to appreciate it. knew at once it was him—the unknown person who had invited me to lunch.
Now, allow me to give you a quick description of the scene before my eyes, as it may help you comprehend the terrifying and horrifying events yet to unfold.
The dining room was split into two sections: one to the left of the doors, and one to the right. The right section had four rows, with four tables in each row. An aisle ran between the rows, dividing them into two on each side.
The left section, slightly smaller, had three rows. The first two held three tables each. The third row, set apart by the aisle, had only one table, occupied by a man in a dark hoodie, most of his face hidden in the hood. Just beyond that table was the kitchen, which took up the space where a fourth row could have fit.
The hijab woman had sat at the first table of the second row on the left side of the room (counting from the doors). I overheard her ordering a ham sandwich and orange juice. The waitress, dressed in a red dress and a white apron, turned to the hoodie man after taking the woman's order.
"Twenty-four chips," he said, raising his head slightly.
From what I could see, he was bearded and handsome. Yet, despite his good looks, he appeared tough and gave off an unpleasant aura. No wonder most people—except for the hijab woman—seemed to avoid the left section.
"And salad," he added as the waitress walked toward the kitchen.
On the right side of the room, at the first table, sat a young couple. At the next table in the second row, a Catholic priest shared a table with a middle-aged man in a dark suit. Adjacent to them, at the same row, was where the white man sat.
I adjusted my beanie and walked past the priest toward the white man. He glanced at me over a menu held in front of his face. I smiled. I assumed he smiled too, though the menu blocked any confirmation.
I pulled out a chair and settled into the soft red fur-cushioned seat. The cushion was as comfortable as it looked. I never bother taking off my trench coat when I sit down. He hadn't removed his orange trench coat either, despite sweating. Perhaps he shared the same habit.
"Who are you?" I asked—and instantly realized I had just started the conversation in the worst way possible.