She greeted me, smiling, with a "Hey, Darlin', what can I get you?" And, handing me a menu and a silverware set, passed me off into a booth that glittered with decades-old vinyl.
I sat, nearly swallowed in the broken springs and cracked seat, and obediently perused the menu. She took my order and left.
It's an interesting collection of patrons who collect at a 24-hour diner at five minutes to 10 at night.
Across the restaurant, a weathered blonde woman dressed in head-to-toe denim and leather sat with her back to the door and jukebox. She was a regular, familiar with both the food and the patrons.
The cook wandered out from the kitchen, his formerly white apron tied haphazardly around his waist. Locating the dish bin, he wandered back.
My waitress came back with a "honey," and a "sugar," left me my black coffee and biscuits and gravy.
She turned, distracted by her sister and brother-in-law coming in, and left me alone.
Texas biscuits and gravy aren't quite the best in the world, but they're close. Combined with strong coffee and a good dose of welcoming, they go a long way toward creating a bit of a haven on a cold Friday night.
I sat there, mopping up the lakes of gravy that pooled in the corners of my plate, and realized I had been missing this sense of grounding.
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