You remember me, dissolved in water: a bowl of bright lights and salt. Gelatinous solvent seeping into obscure segues. I’ve come to tell you I’ve opened up a diner. Yes a diner. I need to hire a middle-aged Mexican short order cook—possibly named Fernando, and a redheaded waitress—definitely named Flo. We’ll serve crisp hash browns garnished with freshly peeled feelings. Sizzle bacon with a side of psychoanalysis. The black and white TV will rerun 80’s episodes of Donahue. You can be the dishwasher! We’ll all split the tips. Carpool. Create a Wednesday night bowling team. Our buzzing marquee will sporadically flash a muted Flagstaff-sunset-in-September orange that reads: Almost 24 hour get your grub on. And just after dawn, you can be the one to turn the sign around on the front door declaring We are officially open. We are almost always open.
(originally published in the San Pedro River Review)