Heaven
Heaven is a diner straight from the 1950s. The ceilings are yellow with tobacco smoke and the walls are painted a chipped and fading mint green. The booths are made of that slippery smooth vinyl, striped like a barber’s pole.
The diner at this hour is nearly empty, save for a couple seated at a table with two steaming coffee cups between them. Their server is both smoking and chewing gum at the same time. One hand is on her hip when she checks the time on her other wrist.
The sizzling sound of the griddle in the kitchen is being attended to by the cook, a fresh-faced boy whose apron is clean and white because his shift just started. There’s a jukebox by the bathrooms, which is currently playing “Please Mr. Postman.” The cook dings for order up as the bells at the entrance jingle and the door opens wide to welcome another person inside.
