Saturday Morning.

The sidewalks in this town have come to feel like a well worn pair of boots. A comfortable set of grooves that I fit in. There is a certain kind of familiarity that comes from living somewhere long enough. On a good Saturday, Ben and I can roll out of bed sometime between nine and ten and walk around the block to our corner diner where the day greets us with cheap coffee and greasy hash browns. It's delightful.

And so we sit and sip and I wish he'd stop looking at the television on the wall instead of me. Occasionally we flirt and I can't help but enjoy the veterans and newspaper readers surrounding us. The clink of forks and knives, the kitchen bell, the buzz of conversation. We pay with cash and talk about this and that. It's uneventful but perfectly so.