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You are eating breakfast alone in a little corner diner, sometime prior to the year 1995.
Flipping through the newspaper. All the news is bad. Like always.
The coffee is bitter. The eggs are greasy.
The waitress wears a name-tag that says ‘Kathy’ but you hear the line cook call her Diane.
She refills your bad coffee, and takes your empty, greasy plate.
You play with the cheap ashtray on the table, and consider lighting up a cigarette.
The bell over the door jingles and you look up to see if it’s who you’re expecting.
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