Strawberry – entering the diner

When I enter the diner that’s the first thing I take in. The space. How it’s filled. How it exists.
The most dramatic and immediate change from the space I’ve just left behind is the assault of cooking oil and ammonia on my nose. Do people still clean with ammonia?
Then the colors. Red leather benches. White tabletops. Pink uniforms.
A toddler three tables to the right of the entranceway pitches a spoon into the air. It forms an impressive arc before it comes to a ping and skittle on the cream tiled floor. His brother laughs. His mother scolds.
I head left. I pass an enormous trucker wolfing a chocolate and syrup waffle. An old man stares at his reflection in a mirror behind the counter as he waits for his change. The waitress, whose rings under her eyes match her charcoal hair, scratches in the till with her fingers, and the flesh of her underarms flaps gently.
I take my seat in the last booth before the bathrooms. My back is against the wall. I sense someone behind me. She exits the corridor wiping her hands on her apron.
Her skin is like snow right before sunset; her hair the sun about to set. Her lips are a strawberry, her eyes are two invigorating pools reflecting the sky on a mountaintop.
“Good morning, Sir. Have you been helped yet?” the drawl of her smoky voice has a history of poverty.

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8 thoughts on “Strawberry – entering the diner

  1. Indigo Spider

    I think I’ve finally figured out what it is about your writing that gets me — the videographer in you creates scenes like a movie. You write visually.

    Reply
    1. scribbla Post author

      I don’t really know how true that is. I know I am very, very meticulous about practising that old saying, “Show it, don’t tell it.”
      Please tell me more about what makes you say I write so visually. (more so than others, anyway) You have piqued my interest now 😉

      Reply

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