Waiting

I was watching snow fall to the left, swiftly change direction and flit right on the endless breath of wind responsible for the biting chill in my hands.  The old mechanic scurried to and fro past the open door, grabbing potions and oils, tools and rags while I rubbed my hands together trying to warm them.  Boat propellers and trap shooting trophies filled dusty shelves next to a pot of coffee I'm sure hadn't been washed since my last oil change. I spent a long time looking at the tall cardboard tube of Domino Sugar imagining it being grabbed several times a day dispensing into thick cups of burned and sour coffee.  It's letters rubbed off and the dark oil of machinery and human fingers layered into a fine shiny amalgamation across the side.  I recognized my car's engine running in the next room and looked up in time to see the mechanic rushing back and forth again, raising my hopes. It was another thirty minutes of watching the snow agitate through the glass and uselessly rubbing my hands together before I would make my escape.