“Okay.” He took two of the menus from the holder at the back edge of the table, handing one to me. “The meatloaf is good, so is the turkey club sandwich.”
The waitress came over, carrying a pot of coffee. She was almost a stereotype, slightly older, with big hair. Her name tag, which said she was Irma, was pinned to the handkerchief tucked into the pocket on the right side of her pink uniform. She must have seen the look on my face because she grinned. “It’s all for show. Now, what do you want for lunch? I know what Jason’s going to order, the turkey club.”
“Can’t say I’m not predictable,” Jason said, smiling ruefully.
I told her I wanted the meatloaf, and she left after filling our coffee cups.
“I’m curious,” Jason said. “I’m presuming you’ve lived most of your life in large cities. W
