Baobab

There's a woman sitting at a table next to yours. She's tired from the heat so she sits very still. Her arms are resting on the table; her head is resting on her arms. Black hair spills over her back like a prehistoric lake. You sit still, too, waiting for your order. The entrance door opens: a man walks in, bringing a memory of the throbbing heat from the street into the dormant ice age interior. He asks what your number is. A few thousand years pass. A baby baobab sprouts and grows into gnarly grandfather baobab before you reply: "78".