#178

it was the same diner you find in every little dive town. mugs the color of old cream with a brown stripe around the top. chipped pie plates served on long-stained tables pressed against faded orange-or-red booths that would look obnoxiously bowling alley if not for their age. in the corner, an aged, inured waitress who never bothers to carry a pen or paper anymore.
the talk is always of grandkids or conservative politics. the only talk of what's to come involves the crops versus current water table.
walking in, the smooth face, hair dye and lack of the obligatory layer of dust was immediately suspicious. steaming pot of slightly burned old coffee in hand, the waitress started to pour him a cup. "you're not from around here, are you, son?"
an unneccessary question.
he looked at her. their eyes were strikingly similar. "i could have been."