The Diner

“Hi, welcome to Jim’s Diner.” The waitress loomed over the table, wearing a pale blue dress and apron, “What can I start you off with?”

“Umm, a cup of coffee for now.” I held the piece of paper in my hand as the scent of food wafted in the air. “Still looking over the menu.”

She nodded, her blonde curly hair bouncing as she sauntered off.

I glanced out the window, the sunrise just creeping up into the sky. How beautiful.

The grass was green, and cars peppered the road, driving by as if they had nowhere to go.

I then scanned the interior. It was a perfect homage to the 50s, from the black and white checkered floor to the jukebox in the corner playing quiet tunes to the outfits of the waitstaff.

The waitress dropped off the coffee and then went to tend the other tables. There were groups of work friends chatting away as they ate their breakfast.

My mouth twitched.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, seeing groups of people crack jokes and make memories. I saw it every day.

It, however, was an unfamiliar feeling.

The waitress came back over. “Have you decided or still need a few minutes?”

I glanced at the menu. “I’ll have the country fried steak and eggs, over medium.”

She smiled, writing my order down on the ticket, “We’ll get started for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, hun.”

She strolled away again, her dress swaying, and I stared into my coffee, the dark liquid contrasting the bright white cup.

I sipped it, the bitterness coating my tongue and the heat warming my insides.

I’d always been on my own. Sometimes by choice, but mainly because people would rather spend time with others.

Especially my own family.

Not that anyone would know if they walked into my family home. Every picture portrayed happiness— everything they did was an act.

I couldn’t ignore the hollowness it carved into my soul.

But how could I break the cycle? How could I reach out after so long of being closed off? How could I make a connection with someone? Was it too late?

Some time passed when the waitress returned to the table and set my plate in front of me, refilling my cup.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Grabbing the fork and knife, I dug into my meal and took a bite. A sigh escaped my lips. It was like a warm hug.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I continued eating, watching as more friends and families entered the diner, giggles echoing through the warm atmosphere.

Soon enough, my plate was empty, and my stomach was filled. I continued drinking my cup of coffee, observing people coming and going.

Pulling out my drafting notebook from my bag, I began sketching out the scene before me from my little corner of the diner, both past and present.

I didn’t use colors for most of my drawings; I just used my charcoal pencil, which smudged onto the outside of my right hand each time I drew.

It wasn’t too long before I finished my drawing, inspecting it. It was good, raw. But something was missing.

I scanned the diner again, realizing I had skipped the people in the booths. So, I added them in, making their silhouettes stand out, along with the waitress.

I studied my sketch again. Much better. More alive. More grounded.

Maybe one day, I would feel those things. Maybe one day, I’d be surrounded by people who could help me feel those things.

But for now, I’d be sitting in a dark corner and drawing the world from the outside.

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