I recall breakfast in a real diner. You know the one, a long counter, the other side a row of booths. Classic sixties, chrome, red vinyl, oblong plates as big as an eighteen wheeler steering wheel. A pound of the crunchiest hash browns, couple of hand made country sausage patties, three fresh ranch eggs over medium yokes riding high above the butter stained plane of white.
a pat of butter on the taters, stack of toasted wonder bread.
four ninety nine.
my woman gets up, her ample hips swaying, she had the mist delicious walk. I follow ten feet behind and notice that every male head in the room, booth by booth swivels. An orchestra of silent gasps, mass covetousness, jaws sliipping just a tad.
me, pretending not to notice and then not to care.
her long, fine red hair bouncing in counter rhythm to her saunter.
alpha dog me. Taking her home. I got this one, you can eat your heart out. A side dish with your biscuits and gravy.
