After riding a short distance you arrive at a small breakfast joint on the outskirts of town.  It's fairly close to your apartment and you are surprised you've never been there before.  He rolls into the parking lot and pulls up in front of the little diner.  You look up and read the sign.  Last chance cafe. You giggle a little to yourself.   Immediately you are struck with the smell of cinnamon rolls  You inhale deeply, closing your eyes.  Ristain turns and grins at you.

 

"They taste even better."  he coos, seeming to have read your mind. 

 

You walk inside and take a seat in the booth in the back. Stepping into the throwback 50 diner feels like stepping back in time.  Red leatherette seats line the bar like an old time ice cream shop.  Black and white linoleum and tile decorate virtually every corner, with the exception of the coke-a-cola memorabilia and old toys hanging on the walls.  The waitresses are all wearing little red and white checkered dresses and black and white Mary Jane shoes.  One of the waitresses glides nonchalantly over to your table, pad of paper and pen in hand.  She pushes her glasses up her nose and proceeds to take your order without even glancing up.

 

"What'll it be folks" she booms, seeming like she must say it a thousand times a day. 

 

Ristain folds up the menu and slaps it down on the table.  

 

"The usual of course"  He belts out loudly, almost rudely.  

 

     The woman's face snaps upward and looks at him intently.  At first you aren't quite sure what she is going to do, but almost immediately a huge smile of recognition washes over her weathered face.  She leans down and hugs him in a too big,  too long, too familiar hug.  You begin to feel a little uncomfortable in the presence of this seemingly inappropriate show of affection.