The Perfect Order

The bagel arrives — steaming, golden, flawless.

The egg is cooked just right, the cheese melts into every crevice, the sausage is a hymn of salt and grease.
You take your first bite.

Time slows. The chatter of UVA students fades to silence. The hum of traffic and whisperings of shots fired disappear.

You ascend.

A glowing aura surrounds you as though Jefferson himself had whispered, “Yes, this is what I meant.”
Behind the counter, the staff nod in solemn approval. The entire restaurant knows — you did not order like a tourist. You are one of them now.

When you open your eyes, you are still in Bodo’s, but also somewhere higher: a transcendent plane where coffee is always full, where the line moves quickly, and where no one ever asks if Bodo’s has WiFi.

You are, at last, a true Cville local.

Try Again? (But why?)