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(Cog. cont.) I liked working morning shift, especially. At the pizzeria I mean. There, morning shift meant ten am, until four or five in the afternoon (hopefully), but most likely two. I would wash off the windows, pick up the morning paper, pop a pepperment candy into my mouth, and set to work making sure that all of the menus were properly washed an organized, our seating chart for the day in order. Once my opening work was finished, I posted up to wait for guests and read the few sections of the newspaper that interested me. Those opening with me would be Dan (the manager), the Pedo, the Down-To-Earth girl (who wouldnt be there until 12), and a couple of other servers and bartenders. I wanted to serve, but by policy or city regulation, one, I wasn't allowed until I was twenty. Someone had been arrested. Accused for murder. Another had neglected to realize that back handing an infant could kill him, though some said he had meant to push the kid away only a little less rough than what he did. The student body of education had decided on some new policy that didn't quite make sense, but felt important. I still had time for a cigarette. Though I had my draw backs about the piggish imp I had heard about, I still hadn't notably spoken to him. He was no one to me. But no one still deserved the benefit of the doubt. I don't know who in this world is lying or not. Not for sure.. If he was there while I smoked, it would be meaningless small talk that lead no where. He knows how to avoid a question he doesnt want to answer, and keep most people at a distance. When I went inside, still waiting for guest to arrive, a conversation with the manager led to ridiculous court cases, one being an old woman who had sued an estate for their son's suicide. His body parts traumatized her when he made impact with the train. Need I say McDonalds? A short man, about five foot seven walked over and joined the conversation. He only ever wore a black button up, and black pants. His shoes a muted color to match, seemingly nothing but with a lot of thought put into them. There was a time when I was excited to see a bag of change out tennis shoes with an opposite, vibrant green streaked teal, sitting inside the host stand until end of shift. "Most, nearly eighty percent of murder cases aren't solved." Huh. As we talked I developed an instant respect for his intelligence, still careful to let my guard down. Intelligent doesn't mean kind. The moment ended with a different light. His mask was piggish, definitely. A part of him seemed to expect me to think of him in a particular way, and then play upon the predicted assumption. The thing is, despite all of the ego simmering beneath his introduction , he expected me to think poorly of him. Or he was projecting how lowly he thought of me, then. There is no telling with that man.. I'm glad I didn't run. I told you about the past lives.. Whatever lives I've lived, he was there. Even if he was just the baker at the market everyday..he was there. Somewhere.