It was the kind of diner that smelled like burnt grease and bad decisions. The waitress—probably late forties, but with the kind of life that adds a decade—poured my coffee without asking, her nails yellowed from a lifetime of Marlboros.
“You eatin’ or just drinkin’?” she asked, voice rough as a busted muffler.
“Just the coffee.”
She didn’t look surprised. The kind of people who sit alone at a counter at 2 AM aren’t known for big appetites. Across from me, some old guy in a flannel coat stirred his sugar like he was mixing cement. Outside, the neon “OPEN” sign buzzed like a bad memory.
I reached into my pocket and counted quarters. Enough for the coffee, not for a tip.
She saw, but didn’t say a thing. Just poured more coffee and walked off. Maybe she’d been here before, too.
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