Wednesday, March 26, 2008


“diner sketch” or Sometimes I Look Like The Bottom of a Shoe

The acerbic waitress seems genuinely glad to see me, which is a betrayal of sorts on her part. I come to this restaurant almost every night. Alone. It’s next to my prescription filler. I won’t bother you with flowery descriptions of what it is that ails me. I’ll simply describe it as a form of pancreatic cancer. That seems appropriately flowery. The waitress brings me a grilled sandwich and a pickle. I don’t have to order. She knows me. I am breathing heavy. I do that. I’m still relatively young though you’d never guess it by looking at me. I’m already going grey. Autumn is hanging her advertisements on the leaves outside. There’s a couple in the corner booth remaining silent. After finishing their coffee one of them mumbles to the other. They get up pay the bill and leave. As they leave I can see that that both of their jaws have been wired shut and that it pains them to say thank you to the waitress. The line cook rings the bell with a spatula and gives a greeting in the form of a head-nod. His moustache makes him looks like an asshole. I am waving to him. Why am I waving to him?

second draft. from notebook.

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