🍱 El Puestito...

"Write a story that begins at your favorite restaurant."

For practical reasons, we will call a small restaurant located in the middle of a street a "puestito."

Their form is quite simple. The main counter, where people sit, stands out in front of the cook. The chef has approximately one meter of movement to both his sides. The altitude of the puestito varies from city to city. The aliments served there are way better than in an expensive eating house, and several chairs are behind the aluminum counter. 

    If you can not figure out exactly how it works, they seem like a four-meter-long food stand or food car. It is not a food truck. 

*   *   *

    A tiny but sophisticated puestito was located in the capital's heart in the shadows of a large building. Its white-and-yellow colors stood out from the coat-and-brown bureaus around it. The sun that day shone with rage, the wind blew with intensity, and the city's noise stood unstoppable. All human beings in the surroundings emanated peace, tranquility, and decisiveness.

    One of that bunch of people was me.

    "Dos de campechano y uno de longaniza para el jovenazo," requested the tall girl to her companion, and cook, Rodrigo. "¿Le ofrezco algo de tomar?" Her friendly tone added to her smiling face created the perfect atmosphere to experience a glorious meal. 

    "I would like Jamaica's water, please, Carmen," answered a pale-skinned boy. His bold head alongside his blue glasses and a black suit made him very recognizable. Meanwhile, the food was running through his tin fingers. He's enjoying that gordita, man! I thought.

"And, for you, lad? How can I help you today?" said Carmen. Her big, black eyes were looking at me.  

"I'm waiting for someone. Can I wait a few more minutes?" I responded without facing her—my shy personality appeared at the worst moment. Thirteen seconds later, from a distance, I saw my buddy, Juan, approximate. He stopped at a juice store to order a particular medicine the shop distributed. 

    "Wey! Do you want something? I pulled out a chair for you." I texted him over the phone while waving my hand from my chair. Then, ten hilarious stickers bombarded him.  

    "Sure, I'm coming. Tell the girl I want two gorditas 'campechanas' and one of cheese." His medium-height and curly hair combined with the spring clothes and hat gave him his odd nickname—el Maris. (The marihuana boy.)

    "Alright, Rodrigo, I think we know what we want to order. The same as yesterday." I proudly said. Carmen chuckled a bit and continued organizing the beverages.

    "Come on, Cesar! I can prepare you something different if you wi—"

    An odd sound interrupted him. The seismic sired broke out. 

    Waah-oww, waah-oww, waah-oww. 

    "Everyone, be careful!" A distant voice exclaimed.

    I got up from my chair, promptly ran to the main boulevard, and fell to the ground. I did not see my face; however, I knew I was scared and wounded. Some debris hit me next to the puestito.

    "Look at the Latin-American Tower. The clock fell!" Another voice yelled.

     *   *   *

 "I'm sorry, guys, I over burned your gorditas," said Juan sadly.

Onward...