We were too drunk to drive home. So, we drove to Denny’s.
We settle ourselves at a table. It is red, raw from the endless scraping of plaster plates and cheap silverware. Harry looks around.
“Denny’s is where the devil goes to take a shit, I’m sure of it,” he says, eyeing a group of men in stained white T-shirts speaking Spanish in the corner. I roll my eyes. A waitress approaches the table.
She is old, molded from the innards of a grease trap and baptized in sour black coffee. She doesn’t ask, but we give our orders anyways. She takes our menus and leaves us.
She is back in a disturbingly short amount of time. Harry looks down at his food.
“You know,” he says, picking a pancake up between two fingers, “it is a clear cut sign that someone is off. I mean, if you ask ‘where’d…
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