Order Up. It’s a 6.

“Would you two like another pot of coffee?” the waitress’s smile, soft, slow, spoke in a language it had only heard, not yet learned.

The two old friends looked up at the waitress, a lifetime of learned balance, “yes, please“, both permission and gratitude.

“Been meeting here for a long time, haven’t we?”, the friends laughed, not merely at the same time, but in a complimentary rhythm as music being more than sound, is often about silences and pauses.

Lifting her hand and using an index finger as stand-in for a piece of chalk, the woman pretended to do the math on an imaginary chalkboard, “would appear so, although for as many years that have passed between us, no time has passed as this, my friend, is our very own time bubble.”

In earnest, yet failing to restrain the tug upward at either side of his mouth, the man exclaimed loudly (but not too loudly), “all I can tell you then, is they damn well better not close this diner or there’s going to be hell to pay.”

Head bent at a familiar angle, the waitress slipped her cell phone back into her apron pocket as she approached the booth with the bookended couple; setting the coffee pot down on the worn Formica, she reached into her other apron pocket for the small touchpad, looked up expectantly and asked “large order of fries?”.