He's chowing down enormous quantities of food—I have no idea how he manages to read such dense books, and write such voluminous notes at the same time! It must be his horrible posture. Or perhaps it's those two brilliant Scrabble players nearby—at this point their score must be in the thousands, although I have never seen a look of vexation like the one on that one player's face.
All this is rendered immaterial, of course, by the catastrophe unfolding on the other side of the restaurant. A waiter must have upset an entire tray full of water glasses—dangerous shards are everywhere, no doubt a bloodbath will soon follow. Two other waiters rush to his aid with the speed of Achilles, and a patron—in what is quite possibly the most generous, giving act I have ever witnessed in a fellow human being—proffers literally hundreds of napkins in an effort to remedy the destruction.
It feels like days, maybe weeks, have passed before I find the first diner standing outside in a monsoon, surrounded by a massive throng of his dearest friends, as they violently and vehemently gesticulate and harangue each other on the merits of a nearby statue, which I recognize as being quite possible the most famous work of art in the entire kingdom that is Seattle.
A bicyclist, no doubt mad with road rage, weaves chaotically like a man with a death wish through a veritable ocean of savage, hulking metal cars. How I wish something more novel than these antiquated events would occur!