The diner booths are dingy, red and cracked. The flies are swarming. Smattered french fry grease is splat on counters. Flat-screens fade to black. It’s noontime and the conversations cease as truckers stuff their faces with The Works. Though I’ve been here three quarters of an hour the staff all side-eye me—humongous jerks! A boy trips by, his milkshake smelling sour. Then there she is—the lady I’m waiting to see: a former teachermotherfriend. We eat and swap war stories, updating until she must go back home. Lunch must end. I guess it is the moments that we want that pass much quicker than the ones we don’t.
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Amarillo Bay 