Originally posted on Gay Flash Fiction:
It was written on the sideboard menu in white chalk: PLAIN BELGIAN WAFFLE. As opposed to what, I wondered. Fancy Belgian waffle? Or maybe it wasn’t about plain or fancy. Could one order a plain Bulgarian waffle? What the hell is a Belgian waffle anyway? And why would I care? Please take note: Rachel Sutton doesn’t care about waffles, plain or fancy. Oh, sure, I thought. As if anyone out there is taking note of what I care about. Once upon a time, Angie would have taken note. No. Better not think about that. She had moved on; I should do the same. It was over.
I sipped my coffee. It was black. Bitter. I liked the taste of it, the heat of the liquid. I closed my eyes and listened to the chatter and clatter around me in the café. The noise of the place was soothing. It occurred…
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