ceciliatan

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

J. hit the next exit. When he rolled down the window to toss a quarter in the ramp toll basket the air smelled swampy. We rolled on up the road toward something that looked lit up about a half mile away.

A diner. A real, honest-to-god diner. They made me sit down and have a bowl of chicken noodle soup, followed by Greek moussaka (most of the best diners in New Jersey are run by Greeks–I have no idea why), then the half of Jonathan’s steak he couldn’t finish, and chocolate cream pie to top it all off. I have no idea what Ziggy ate. I was too focused on my own plate and he was done by the time I looked up.