NINE
James sat on an empty, upside-down, white five-gallon container. He rested the back of his head against the back of the building and slowly smoked his cigarette. There was always a slight lull between breakfast and lunch crowds. It never lasted long, but it gave him a chance to sneak outside. He preferred busy times. The respite left him with too much time on his hands. Being alone with his thoughts never ended well.
The diner occupied the hours of his day. The routine when he clocked out was simple.
He’d get home, change into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and he’d run with his dog, Rigatoni. Rigs. They would do a couple of miles. He listened to music when he ran. Instinctively, he sang along with each song. Like cooking at a busy diner, listening to music kept James from thinking.
“J
