Fiction

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

Dell's had survived two recessions, one fire, and the arrival of three separate chain restaurants across the street, but it did not survive Dell's knees, which finally refused to stand another shift after forty-two years. On the last night, the regulars came without being asked — the same booths, the same orders, as if enough routine might hold the building up by itself. Old Higgins ordered the meatloaf he'd ordered every Thursday since 1994. The Okafor twins, grown now, ordered the milkshake they used to split as kids, and split it again. Dell cooked the last order himself, refusing help, wanting his hands to be the ones that closed it out the way they'd opened it. When the last plate went out, the diner didn't clap or cry, just ate, slowly, the way you eat something you know you won't taste again. Dell hung his apron on the hook at midnight and left it there. It's still there.