Sudsy water presses against glass. The applicator swirls like a ballroom patron determined to use every inch of the dancefloor. Pause. Twist. Splash. A saturated mop head returns to the wide mouth container.
Exhibiting the sort of flair born only with practice and repetition, the man reaches for a molded rubber blade. A turn of the wrist later and it touches the glass. Firm. Precise. Moisture hurries downward, ahead of a wide, clear path.
The man moves on, pushing the wheeled cart of supplies ahead of him. Quick, more to go.
Early morning sun slants past the roofed walk. Beckoning joggers, strollers, and patrons alike. In a flash it livens the window, makes it extend an invitation.
Welcome to my restaurant.