Just the other day

I'm sitting in a diner and they're playing diner music in the background: ooh-maw-maw-mama-ooh-maw-maw.... It's a tired cliché, like the only reason people visit diners anymore is to relive the 1950's. I'm sure half of Flo's Diner's clientele was born after 1965 and our memories of diner culture come from watching Happy Days, not from living the real thing. It's Thursday afternoon, and Flo's is empty except for me and the waiters. They mill about in their matching black slacks and blue T-shirts, refilling ketchup bottles and restocking napkin dispensers, or whatever it is that diner waiters do when there's a lull. I'm in the corner by the window that overlooks the street from the second floor reading my book and drinking tea. A dust-filled fan oscillates, blowing air on me from across the room.