Stephen Mejias

Waiting for our food to arrive, the four of us sat at the wooden table, two to a side: Boy, girl, boy, boy.

"This table seems very short," Jenna said.
"Yes, it does," I agreed.

Outside, on Frank Sinatra Drive, fall was happening.

"I looked up for a second and thought it was snowing," Jenna said.

Behind me, on the other side of the exposed brick and through the glass windows — just outside of Maxwell's — a million golden leaves rained down onto the street. They danced from their homes, fast and strong and desperate; a lovely, wild marathon from tree limbs to ground.

It seemed fake. It seemed almost wrong.

"What's going on out there?" someone else asked.
"I guess it's just leaves."