From the Corner Booth

It's after 11 p.m. 

Traffic still hums on the interstate below, though at a slower pace than usual. 

"Take Exit 104 to the best Apple Cobbler in America!" 

My diner sits like a lighthouse at the top of the exit ramp, offering not only the cobbler but a chance to stretch the legs, a clean restroom, and a warm smile from servers carrying pots of fresh, strong coffee.

A cartoon dame in the style of a 1940's pin-up girl flashes a faded smile from the billboard, but something about her eyes feels familiar and stirs up something akin to homesickness in the hearts and stomachs of weary travelers. 

A bright neon red "Open" sign burns over the large front windows. 

In spite of the late hour, the counter seats are nearly full and the handful of booths along the front and outside walls are taken except for one small, two-seater, stuck like an afterthought in the corner by the kitchen entrance.

I don't mind being the corner booth. I've learned, over the years, that people either love me or hate me. The ones that love me are worth the lonely hours I spend in between companions.

A red-headed waitress in a black and white gingham apron hands my visitor a menu as she joins me. Settling into the worn vinyl, a thick, white coffee cup is set before her, and the rich aroma of a Columbian roast fills the area around us. 

My companion looks tired - a fairly standard expression worn by those I encounter. She is young, her black eyeliner is perfectly drawn, ending in sharp points at the corners. Silver jewelry adorns her fingers and wrists. Around her neck are two charms - a locket and an evil eye. She mindlessly fidgets with the locket, opening and closing, opening and closing. Inside, though I only catch a glimpse, is the image of someone bearing the young woman's same high cheekbones and long, straight hair. 

The waitress is back, coffee-pot in one hand, a stack of plates lined up in a row along her left arm. "I'll be right with you, hon." 

An older man in a weathered, khaki jacket sits next to someone else - a woman, I can tell that much - but they are sitting side-by-side in the booth so I don't have a good vantage point to see more than an occasional glimpse of her.

The man begins dividing up the food Red has delivered to their table. First the burger, then the fries - his movements practiced and easy as though he had been repeating this same ritual for years.

Red has appeared at my own table again, pen and pad in hand. Noticing my companion's stare, she says, "Cute little old couple, aren't they?" 

She glances back at them, her kind eyes glistening.

"They've been coming here every Friday night for as long as I can remember. Same booth. Same order. Always sit beside each other. It's sweet. They're good tippers, too." She winks.

Sitting at the counter, a group of teenagers laughs, sharing plates of fries and inside jokes, sipping on chocolate milkshakes, not a worry on a single face. One of the young men is looking with puppy dog eyes at a brunette in a pink sweater.

At the booth closest to the door, a young man and woman sit across from each other, holding hands, empty bowls stacked to the side. Even from here, it is clear that they are lost in the moment. The rest of us just background noise to a symphony only they can hear.

Not everyone is so enamored, however. A baby cries two booths down from mine, while his young mother attempts to distract him with toys from a diaper bag. Just as the wailing intensifies, the diner door opens, and a man in a dress shirt and tie walks in, heading straight for the baby who now reaches for him with chubby little outstretched arms. 

A while later, the same baby giggles with delight as he tries apple cobbler and ice cream for the first time. I have a feeling we have just hooked a new customer for life.

A middle-aged woman with soft graying curls looks at her watch and eventually stops getting refills of coffee. She stands to leave just as a man about her age steps inside the diner. Though not loud or boisterous, it is clear that there is a rift between them, and his being late did not help to diffuse the situation.

At any given moment, glimpses of the full cycle of life can be seen in this place. Most of these visitors have sat here with me at one time or another. Solitary, lonely souls like my companion tonight. Young lovers before they became such, early in the stages of flirting and awkward silences heavy with desire - and after, hands intertwined across my table or snuggled next to one another. Either way, oblivious to time, sound, or the ice cream melting in their bowls.

There are the young families that take every form imaginable. One parent, two. One child, 6. We once had a family with 12 children join us on what was obviously an unplanned but much-needed stop on a long road trip. I still bear some scars from the 8 year old twins that thought carving their initials on the table under the napkin holder would be a fun way to pass the time. Brady bunch they were not. It seems funny now, but it's the only time I've ever seen Red look stressed. She handled it like the pro that she is though, refilling drinks, offering some cobbler on the house, knowing full-well the situation was going to end with a sticky floor and a lousy tip.

The couple she mentioned to my companion has been coming here for years. Her uncle used to own the place. She worked summers here in high school, when the man across from her was just a jock in a baseball uniform. 

Their children had their first bites of cobbler and ice cream here, too.

I've seen a lot of firsts. And lasts. The meal the couple is sharing tonight has a feeling of finality to it, though I can't explain why. Something about the look of sad acceptance in the man's eyes as he helps the woman put on her blue, woolen coat.

He nods at Red as they head to the door, bell overhead jingling as it always does to signal arrivals....and departures.

The phone on my table lights up, and with it, the face of my companion. Her eyes fill with the beginnings of tears, and though I can't read the message she received, I feel her body relax with a sigh. 

Red is back with a plate of hot, salty fries and a small bowl of cobbler. 

My visitor looks up in protest, "Ma'am - I can't p..." her voice cracks. Red just pulls a bottle of ketchup out of her apron with a wink and pats the girl's hand. "It's free fries and cobbler between 11 and 3."

Good ol' Red. She's probably spent half her earnings here over the years on fries and cobbler for wayfaring strangers.

The familiar bell rings again above the door as a woman enters the diner. She looks hastily dressed - mismatched shoes are always a dead giveaway. Hair thrown up in a messy bun, the circles under her eyes say she hasn't slept for days.

She glances around, searching faces. When she sees the young woman at my table, who, despite the earlier protest has polished off all the fries and half the cobbler, she is there in an instant. For a moment, I wonder if this will be like the time those two truckers got into a fistfight over who was getting the last piece of cobbler. 

But as the young lady looks up, the woman takes her face in her hands. Leaning down she searches the heavily-lined eyes and I see now, this is the woman from my companion's locket. 

No words are exchanged just then, but if I've learned anything in my 60 years, it's that communication isn't always about words. A look, a touch, even a free plate of fries, sometimes conveys everything that is needed in that moment.

The girl stands, and the woman wraps her up in a hug for the ages. Arm in arm, they head for the door.

As they leave, I wonder how many stories have had chapters written in this place, in my booth. Good news shared, bad news broken, as well as hearts. First steps have been taken on these floors, and first dances. There has been spilled coffee, spilled milk, spilled tea, and spilled tears. More than one person has used it as a place to finally call home, and the young woman who sat with me tonight won't be the last.

Red eventually comes by, clearing the table, wiping it clean and refilling salt shakers. At the end of her shift, she'll come over with a cup of tea, and we will sit in companionable silence, watching the sun rise. Soon, Cook will come and sit as well, two bowls, a bag of apples, and a well-used paring knife in his hand.

Just us three. An empty diner. And the memories.