Glenn's fork plunged into his salad and, like out of a Coyote and Roadrunner cartoon, an eruption of fire and smoke bellowed out of the cafe's kitchen. While the causality was a bit shaky, Glenn's date, Brad, looked across the table with his mouth agape.
"I promise I didn't have anything to do with it," Glenn said quickly, before the idea of evacuation had entered either man's mind. The idea did rush in, however, as a small series of pops and bangs rang out. Glenn made the choice to grab his salad.
"Sweet Son of Satan!" Brad exclaimed upon reaching the parking lot. The building, once a stately manor many lives before being turned into a museum and cafe, was engulfed in flames. A few folks ran around the parking lot as if their panic would somehow extinguish the inferno, but most stood and watched. Neither Glenn nor Brad were firefighters - their careers were fairly far removed from physical activity - and they correctly assumed there was nothing they could do about the situation.
"That's quite a fire," Glenn said in between fork-fulls of salad.
"You brought your salad out?" Brad said, shocked.
"Sure, I paid for it."
The two stood in silence for a bit longer, just watching the fire burn and the folks more qualified to handle the situation do so. Eventually Glenn looked at his empty bowl.
"What do I do with it?" he asked aloud. He didn't expect more than a shrug from Brad.
"Throw it in the fire."
It was Glenn's turn to shrug. He didn't see a better option, so he tossed it in with a mounting pile of debris.
"This fire's got me all hot," Glenn said upon his return. "Your place or mine?"
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