Even though the restaurant looked crappy, there was something inviting about it. A quick look inside, and a glance at the menu on the glass door, it seemed decent enough to grab a quick dinner. It wouldn’t really be an inexpensive food, perhaps they’d charge more since it was downtown.
The owner seemed to be shutting down the place as I was in the middle of my meal. I heard him explaining something to the other costumer before he paid for his wine and left. I could only pick up a few familiar words from their conversation, and finished the rest of the sentence in my head. I hurried, took bigger bites from the meat on my plate. “Slow down,” said the stranger sitting on the opposite side of the table; he seemed to be sixty years old. He tried to tell me not to hurry with his hands and his facial expressions. He kept talking, but I missed most of what he was saying. I need to pick up the language faster, so that I could understand what this man is trying to tell me. To understand whether he’s from the south, and if he has an accent. If the time was as unimportant to him as the other southerners. Take your time, that’s what he was trying to explain. One bite after another. No rush.