Shattered glass and whips of coffee swung through the café while tires dragged tablecloths under treads, slinging sweethearts and servers to the doors.  A crack of steel against the bar table and the hissing of an engine signaled the proprietor to open his eyes and catch sight of a silver ‘92 Sudan, crumpled with stools through its windows, pinning him in a corner lined with sweeteners and creams.  Suddenly the silver door kicked open and the owner’s eyes grew round like golf balls.  Under the door stepped a pair of ribboned shoes, followed by the flushed face of a six-year-old through the window frame, her cheeks red like watermelon wedges.


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