On a morning when the sky nearly brushes my hair, I cross the parking lot dodging a cyclist in a red T-shirt. He barely misses me while wobbling his bike with fat denim legs. I reach the glass French doors in time to hold it open for a young woman carrying a whippet in her arms. Her hair color perfectly matches the whippet’s. The swing of her hips could part clouds. The place is full of voices and food orders and intermittent Beach Boys. A young boy squeals in laughter as his dad sputters a big deep breath though his lips. The boy bounces his closed fists up and down on the table across from his mother who cuts French fries with a white plastic fork. She says something to the dad, who steps aside to make way for a lady in a tank-top that can’t cover the bulge lapping over her waistband. Mauled fries surge down the chin of the squealing boy as from a sausage grinder into a broken casing. Tapping me on the shoulder, a man points to the girl behind the counter who is asking again if I want cream and sugar.