floating in a tin can

jewsinspace
spaceodyssey

It’s 1:42 AM when Michael Ginsberg ducks into a 24-hour McDonald’s. He’s familiar with most of the all-night fast food places within (what he considers) walking distance of home, and some of them (like this one) are familiar with him. He hangs around certain areas more than others, and tonight he’d wanted something friendlier, at least on the surface.

He’s not surprised when he sees someone else in line. It’s New York, there are always people awake. A couple others are hanging around in corner booths, staring at their smartphones or wearing earbuds like they’ve got nowhere else to be. The person at the counter—the very, very tall person, over half a foot taller than Michael—is taking their time too, spreading out small change everywhere, counting it again and again.

Michael’s not the best at reading people, but the cashier might possibly be getting impatient. It’s enough to make him curious. He wanders up to check things out because his nosiness is irrepressible, and what are social boundaries anyway?

“Hey, what’s—um.” He blinks a couple times. Not what he was expecting. His fingers twitch. “Wow, your hair is pretty.”