Ikea has the cheapest breakfast outside of the home. In fifteen minutes we can be at the table, dunking french toast sticks into a bowl of maple syrup (not ideal, but Ford’s ideal, which he serves up himself) and feeling the warm sunlight pour through the floor-to-ceiling windows, penetrating the pores, the caffeine from the Swedish coffee slipping instantly into your bloodstream as if by DMSO. The eggs are synthetic but oddly satisfying, since we are always starving and they are always served steaming hot. There are beads of syrup on the table, collecting on their t-shirts, smeared between fingers. I sit there, across the table, sipping my coffee and wondering how they can stand their filth. Judging from the quiet, they couldn’t be more content with it.
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