Hal
The clinking of silverware on plates and the light drone of endless conversations filled the restaurant. Clam shell lighting fixtures, yellowed from years of tobacco smoke, dimly lit the walls they were attached to. The chandeliers above were also covered in a tar like coating mingled with dust from nearly a decade of neglect. The chains holding them looked more like a solid cable than chain that could lower the lights the floor.
The wallpaper was once a thick, patterned, dark crimson velvet. When you touched it it felt reminiscent of the velvet Christmas gowns from a more simpler time. A time when you could rest your cheek on your mothers skirt, and felt a comfort you would never know in life again. The wallpaper now was scarlet and felt burred, almost as if singed by heat too many times. The marquee pattern it once held was now a faint shadow, only so be seen if you tilted your head just so and looked at it.
The wait staff were visibly uncomfortable from the stiffness of their starched, hazelnut brown uniforms. The pants rustling together loudly as they walked briskly past, as if calling out for you to not impede their service. In one of these stiff uniforms was a woman in her late thirties, suffering in silent depression over divorce and death. You could not see the sorrow etched into her dark cocoa skin. The desire to give up was not visible in her fake smile. Her midnight, kinky coily natural hair was done in a perfect bun without a hair out of place. Her face bore no makeup of any kind to hide behind; no mascara to run with her tears and scream to the world, “Something is WRONG!”. When she spoke you heard a soothing smooth tone, not her true voice just under the surface that wanted to crack. Despite having gained twenty pounds from recent comfort food, she was the vision of perfection. Alburtine Jensen made you feel as if it was her life’s devotion to make you comfortable and happy.