I work, I sit, I pass time shuffling around the pillar island, drinking half glasses of water, and thumbing through hair. While my hand wears a print on my head, between awake and asleep, my ears pique. I'm hearing a young girl stating complaints and searching for solace from a voice on the other end of the phone. I'm hearing more than that though.

I'm hearing an attempt to convince herself that the current situation isn't her fault. She lists grievances that have been leveled against her in exaggerated tones and facial expressions. A phantom in her own stories, you hear nothing of her part. What is in her mind are the extremely unecessary sacrifices she made in hopes of justifying her love. A troubled boy enters her life with similar interests and she jumps. Leaving friends and home, traveling with him to a town in which she doesn't want to live. The bigger the inconvenience, the more the pain, the stronger she is convinced of their relationship. Months pass with his constant refusal of seeking employment, which results in an failure to pay rent. Now, faced with tough decisions, she is at a loss. As a substitute for making a decision, she complains, denying her role in this state of affairs. That's where she is, roughly fifteen feet away, back-tracking through a year's complications.

I open my eyes and look over my left shoulder. At the back of the restaurant a man stressfully sifts through checks with forgotten birth dates and missing driver's license numbers. More years are piled on his face than he has lived. But I am not seeing just my boss.

I'm seeing the formerly successful member of the european lumber industry. A business his father built, and he inherited, honoring his family's name. And then the war. People fleeing homes, soldiers forcing them from their vehicles along crowded highways. I see a small family, walking back after its conclusion, in hopes of some remaining familiarity. They find their house burned to the ground. Two growing young boys and a father wondering how he will provide for them. His relatives having been doing well in the states, and it seems the most logical plan. After spending a few years in the city, although his restaurant is providing more than sufficiently, he cannot supress his country roots. They move to a small town and set up shop, but italian is not in high demand in such a rural and uncultured area. He makes enough, but with a growing family and slowing economy, only enough. Close margins force an added attention to detail, and the lines continue stacking upon his brow as he scans the checks.

I scratch my stubble and wonder if there are any tables at the moment. My question is answered by two hefty women, one chattering between gulps of her chicken alfredo and the other nodding as she inhales her lasagna. But I see beyond their lunch.

I see them sitting on benches outside of outlet malls, multiple bags from beall's and old navy stationed by their ankles. As they are heading back into town they see a billboard for a restaurant they have never heard of. Pulling in, they notice a woman descending the steps of the courthouse, and comment on her wardrobe or standing in the community. They briefly examine the menu, ordering the only items they know how to pronounce. The clinking of their furiously shoveling silverware conducts the gossip.

Time is inching by. I'm feeling more than just seconds slipping by. I'm realizing that it is from these seemingly endless variables that one single moment is comprised.