Diner

“It is not acceptable, you see, when they forget the main …”

“…complements.” Ingrid completed.

“Indeed.” Iris’s gray head bobbed emphatically, loose bun nodding and escapee wisps trailing.

Ingrid touched a hand to her own hair, confirming the tightness of her French braid. All was in order. Good. Iris has always been unbecomingly lax with locks’ management and Ingrid could never understand it. Especially not when Iris was so particular about her condiments’ orderly array.

“I’ll get the hot sauce, then.” Iris turned toward the diner’s kitchen. “And have them hand me some mustard and mayo, while they’re at it.”

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

“Remember when we used to come here all the time?” Lisa rested her chin on her palm, elbow propped onto the tablecloth, and dreamy eyes gazing out the diner’s window.

Her mother nodded, throat too full of ache to speak. She signaled for the check. Lisa looked so much like Gloria in that posture. The two had the same mannerisms, the same coloring and freckled cheeks, even the same tone. The niece’s resemblance to her aunt had been a source of joy. Still was. Always will be. But there was loss there, too.

Now that Gloria was gone.

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers