“There’s a diner about thirty minutes north.”
“A diner?”
“It’s open all night. Terrible coffee. Excellent pie.”
She thought about it.
“Take me there.”
So I did.
The diner was the kind of place that seemed preserved from another decade.
Chrome trim.
Red booths.
A jukebox nobody used.
One exhausted waitress named Marcy who looked at us like she had seen every version of heartbreak before.
Karen ordered coffee.
I ordered coffee and apple pie.
“You said the coffee was terrible,” she reminded me.
“It is.”
“Then why did you order it?”
“Commitment to the experience.”
She shook her head.
For the next hour, we talked.
Not about Michael.
Not at first.
We talked about ridiculous things.
Daniel’s first girlfriend.
The time he tried to microwave a fork when he was twelve.
My disastrous attempt to start a landscaping business at nineteen.
Karen’s abandoned dream of opening a small bookstore.
