the café

i don't know that i'll ever feel more at home than i do in any small town diner in america.

the steam from a crappy cup of coffee rises from between my hands.

i've poured three of those tiny, unflavored half-and-half cups in it, but the ratio and temperature keep getting fucked up by the probably-still-teenage waitress that keeps coming by to top it off without a word.

four older men meet in a corner booth, and i overhear them discussing notable roadkill they've seen on the highway recently.

it's palpable.

there's love here...

...and the time and space to unfold it.

i'd rather kill the radio and listen to the rain hit.

topping up a coffee without consent is borderline assault. they must not fuck with a carefully calibrated ratio.