Diner

I sat in the small, dingy diner at an ungodly hour.

It wasn't because I was running from something, or running to something. It was because I needed the space. Space to think. Space to breathe.

It was a place no one thinks twice about. A location that both doesn't exist and seems eternal. The waitress sat at the counter, staring into the middle distance, half at work and half in a dream of her own making. I wonder what she was thinking about. Those weary brown eyes seem to have seen so much, yet so little. The look of someone who spent their entire life in a small town and never gave it a second thought. Until the idea that life could end came crashing down into their lap.

The other patrons aren't much different. A shifty couple clearly waiting for the chance to dine and dash. They wear their worn out faces like masks of pitiable misfortune. Wear and tear that isn't their fault, but the fault of a cruel world and an unjust system. Anything to get out of living responsibly. One could say they are the result of a system that tosses people away. Some would say that they are scum looking to take anything they can. All I know is I recognize tracks in someone's arm just as clearly as I recognize the look people have when life has given them no chances.

A man sits at the other end of the counter from the waitress. His hunched over form speaks to decades of hard work, or hard living. The stains on his coat and the way he spreads his elbows when leaning against the counter tell a tale of someone who has fought hard for every inch, and lost it all, and fought to try to regain it again. He has the stance of someone who could tell you the secrets to living a good life, because he managed to evade every single one. The look of his eyes closing as he brings his steaming cup of coffee up to his lips is one of devout worship, and bitter sadness.

I realize there is nothing for me here. Nothing besides the smell of hot coffee and pancakes. A kind of panacea for the wandering soul. A balm for what ails me. It's no permanent fix, but if all it costs me to feel like a real person again is an hour in a dingy diner, and the price of a stack of pancakes and a cup of coffee, that's a fair trade.