I go to the same diner every day. I get their sandwich of the day, which is always enormous, with a side of coleslaw, fruit salad and an extra-large tea in a Styrofoam cup. I do as I always do: eat half the sandwich and wrap the other half in a napkin, eat the coleslaw but keep the lid on the container of fruit salad, and tell the waitress, Ann, that she looks beautiful in pink so that she’ll laugh and tell me that she stopped believing that statement back in seventy-nine. “But feel free to keep saying it,” we both say, in chorus. It’s a daily ritual, it takes no effort on my part and she’s always smiling when I leave. I tip her my customary tip and I pocket the rest of the sandwich and the container of fruit. I always walk, there and back, even though it’s fifteen minutes each way. It kee
