That Damn Diner
I’d written hundreds of short stories and hundreds of poems, but only ever read them aloud to myself and the everyday ham sandwich sitting in front of me that I was eventually going to eat. It was like that for years until the norm got boring.
It was a warm summer night, past the time when even kids out past curfew are at home, safe in bed behind locked doors. I couldn’t sleep, so I gathered my recent notebook and went for a walk. There was no traffic, no sounds, and the only lights were from either street posts or from a TV left on by mistake in a living room.
Walking for no more than fifteen minutes, I came to a corner diner I had never actually eaten in. It was still open at that late of an hour, but the only souls inside were the waitress and the chef. I made my way in.
The older woman that would wait on me told me to grab a seat anywhere. I found a stool at the counter. She asked if I’d like a cup of coffee, but I turned it down. Instead, I just asked for her audience.
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