A ficly about a late night trip to a diner.
A little place called Four AM. We stepped into the dinner, knowing our money was low. We’d been traveling at night a lot. There were two younger Latino men in the corner booth, sipping coffee, and debating the wonders of nighttime driving with the fifty-something year old waitress who sat next to them.
She walked over when we entered, bleary-eyed. I loved twenty-four hour diners. There was a kind of brutal honesty about the place, but everyone kept their decency. I looked out the big window at the car parked in the cold, the dew gathering on the hood. The lot, the single road through town, the park across the street. Everything was empty. There was a baseball game on the television which was planted awkwardly on a high shelf above the bar.
The food arrived on wings, like the cook had been waiting for us, and before twenty minutes was up, we were on the road, listening to the engine purr, the AM radio station hiss, and the chilled wind whip the sides of the car.
Originally on Ficly: http://ficly.com/stories/18861
