I stumble into a diner on Permeating and Decadence. I picked a booth in the back by the kitchen. The clanging dishes were soothing. A waitress with a beehive hairdo, popping some chewing gum, poured me a cup of coffee. She took my order of smothered covered spuds and eggs. "Fresh coffee" painted on the outside window, but by the smell of it, fresh must mean scorched from a couple of hours ago.
Innocence caught the attention of my bloodshot eyes. A young waitress and patron were nervously flirting with each other over raggedy menus and steaming eggs. Their smiles and giggles were hypnotic. Yet, they were rapidly heading towards the birth of a lifetime of blissful memories. Or, perhaps they will consist of just a few stolen moments, spent in a fogged-up windowed multi-fueled sedan. I chuckle to myself as the image plays in my mind, the two of them wiggling and gasping in that tight space, desperately trying to reach that "ooh baby" moment. There is something to be said for American muscle.
While taking another sip of coffee, I noticed a man walk in. He was the very definition of cool, looking like an extra in the sequel of "Superfly." As I realized that there wasn't a sequel, I began wondering did he seriously walk out of the house dressed like that. I gave him a courteous nod, hello. Then I finished eating my breakfast of delight, topped off with the coffee that could easily stand on its own without a cup. Ahhh! What a bitter memory to taste.
My index finger fished around inside my pack of cigarettes as if fishing my finger around was going to make more cigarettes appear. I grinned a bit as I found one, bent, in the corner of the fold. I perched it between my lips, as I rifled through my pockets, searching for a light. Right on cue, the beehive appeared again, offering a light, as she whisked my plate away. The first drag after a meal was contentment in a puff, while I pulled my old notebook out to finish the deed. My scribing is what gets me through, but it is also what keeps me lost in yesterday.
Through my burning eyes, I see a diner full of assorted characters screaming their individuality. Yet, when it boils down to it, they are just ordinary people. I am just a scriber of the stories their faces speak, while their mouths tell another. I spend each day writing the pain of others so that I can hide my own. It is something that becomes easier each day, as I write the memoirs of a breath.