A Moment of Silence

I'm sitting in the far back corner of a Dairy Queen in Capitola, CA, a small and privileged seaside town, enjoying the company of my new "buddy". This new "buddy" of mine is a fifteen-year-old Down's syndrome kid who I hang out with on Mondays and Wednesdays from 2:45 when he gets off the bus, until 5:45 when our last game of Wii Bowling is about over.
His father provided the $2.50 for the size large, vanilla soft-serve in a cup that my buddy is enjoying. I am not eating ice cream, I am simply there for the good company.
The lighting inside is somewhat dim, much of which is provided by the setting sun which pours through the large glass windows surrounding us. Sunlight shines through an adjacent woman's tall, well put-together hair which reminds me of a mix of a clown's wig and an 18th-century hair style. She is enjoying a sundae, being careful not to get much of her indulgence all over her face, thus having to completely reapply her makeup, which she conveniently has laid out on the table in front of her.
My buddy takes his time with his ice cream, savoring each bite. Aside from occasionally having to remind him to wipe milky drool from the corners of his mouth, which is in the form of a big old grin, I am able to become completely saturated in the calmness of the situation, allowing myself to relax and slow down for a second. Appropriately, I enjoy the moment of silence- a title I give based on the lack of speech or unnecessary human-made sound, for the room is not completely silent; the soothing melodies of The Moody Blues and their hit song, "Nights of White Satin" lightly plays over the ceiling-mounted speakers.
During this moment of silence, I stare out the window across from me, behind my buddy, behind the booth we are sitting at. There is an active intersection with a coffee shop diagonal from us, some people are sitting outside. I notice a man run into the middle of the intersection to pick up a pair of black Levi's (I can tell by the large rectangular tan tag) and run back to the umbrella-covered table he was sitting at. Within seconds, a man with his young son approach the Dairy Queen on a large electric stand up scooter. Only seconds later, the adjacent woman with the large red hair stands up and leaves the establishment, walking towards her car which is parked in front of a tap dancing studio. Pimply faced high school students run by each of the three windowed walls on the outside of the restaurant, eventually making their way in. My moment of silence is over as they squeeze into a booth behind me, gossiping.