The waitress couldn’t have been more than 22.
“There you go, Dearie.” She patted his shoulder. “Your food’ll be right out.”
A deep wood sprang up just past the flower boxes, not a car in sight.
“Two pancakes and bacon, Hon. Enjoy!”
The maple syrup was real without him asking.
He ate to the gentle buzz of conversation.
“Need another refill, Love?” Her warm smile seemed genuine.
That last meal in Manhattan came back in all of its gory detail, the rude faces, Jan’s anger.
“Sure.” He returned her smile.
Sipping coffee, he thought, “Perhaps I’ll stay.”
Word count = 100
A few days ago I had a conversation with someone about how it seems that every waitress in every diner, no matter her age, seems to call every male over 20 “Hon”, “Honey” or “Dearie”. She had a few theories, which I won’t repeat, but my comment was about how odd it sometimes felt in the “me too” era. Actually, I always felt it was odd, but worse now! But perhaps they are right, perhaps it does make some people feel at home.