The Wistful Dinner
The rain does not fall; it hangs, a gray curtain pulled tight against the windowpane of the diner where you sit, the vinyl seat sticky beneath your palms. You are waiting for a man who is not coming, or perhaps for a ghost who has forgotten his own name. The coffee in front of you has gone cold, a dark, still mirror reflecting the fluorescent buzz above. You remember the smell of the barracks,...
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