And I'm not the only one dreaming of going back to the diner:
Now, at some point almost every day, I imagine eating toast and eggs and pancakes and hash-brown potatoes. I think about the little ceremonies and rituals that go into a Giant Diner Breakfast. I even miss that moment when, at a new diner, you aren’t sure if it’s a place where you pay the server or you walk up to pay at a register.
It’s one way to cope, I guess. Maybe I can’t shake the idea of the breakfast because it’s almost as useful as the breakfast itself: It’s a way to feel a little bit better about things and to remind myself how lucky I really am.
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