fortyone

(part one)

I’m not real. I don’t think I exist.

He didn’t ask me why I wanted to meet at this diner. He just said he would be here at ten. I’m early, because I’m always early. I’m like clockwork.

Everyone here is real, I think. The waitress is the same one who serves me three cups of coffee and a slice of cherry pie with whipped cream every Wednesday night, the only night I come here. I’m sure she’s real. There have been a few times where I’ve seen people who I didn’t think were real. They’d come by once or twice, and then never again.

The ceiling tiles have stains of yellow and brown from when smoking was allowed in here. It’s been long enough, someone should change those. Everyone is eating as they should, talking as they should, being how they should. Everything in order.

I feel nervous. I know I should be slightly sweating. It’s a Thursday. It is ten. A man with a fedora walks into the diner. He’s here to see me.

He exists.