Supper

The neon signs in the diner vibrated with a hum as he sat beneath them. His usual corner booth. Clock over the stove hung upside down and ran backwards. The waitress, same apron, sneakers, stale cigarette smell, and dove tattoo across her wrist came over. “What’ll it be?” He got a plate of fried chicken, biscuit on the side, local ale. She pocketed the paper menu and didn’t write anything down. It was the same order—She knew at the end of the meal he’d drop two twenties and tell her to keep the difference. He removed a cigarette and lit up, and he knew she wouldn’t complain.

No. 125