Diner

The placemats, new but old-new, thin cheap paper and washed-out palette, highly informative. If conversation flags, you can always study the drink recipes.




Forks, occasionally crusted with dried egg. Water, honest NYC kitchen tapwater in food service glasses. Bowls of pickles that taste of bandaid. The waitress who, barely glancing down, proclaims my two-year-old niece "cute" in a voice that says, "I have seen an awful lot of two-year-olds in my 25 years here. They are all the same."

Uncharming, with their strange lighting and listless food on thick chipped plates, diners are the same world without end. I have conducted my business in these places: love affairs over pancakes. Turkey club sandwiches after funerals. Gossip, crying jags, laughter that tipped me sideways out of my seat.

Long may they continue to thrive, in their vinyl-coated, Star-Trek-lighting-fixtured glory!

Beloved

Is he charming? Or does he make my insides go squinky when I imagine his unblinking HumptyDumpty-ness grinning at me from the underside of the bed? It's a tough call.

My mother's adored doll, 64 years old.