Every morning, Chuck had breakfast at his favourite greasy spoon Diner, the Apollo 11 restaurant. With photos of astronauts staring down at him over his coffee he felt suitably untethered to this terrestrial sphere.
His orange juice was rocket fuel, his potato grits, stardust. Inside the dark pit of his coffee cup, plumes of cream took on the spinning proportions of milky galaxies. Chuck noticed that the pink-haired pixie girl that rewarded him with a re-fill was a little too hard to avoid eye contact. Her dark eye-shadow was out of place in this typical restaurant, on this typical street, on a typical Sunday morning.