babes kerry it was one in the afternoon and we were both grimy and grungy. we’d gone to goodwill and home depot and suddenly we were both starving. shirley’s always talking about penrose diner, he said, and i said why not, and we blasted down oregon ave, swung into the parking lot, and parked under the highway overpass, at the far end of the lot. penrose diner is enormous. i don’t like it as quite as much as melrose, but that’s because melrose feels like mine. it’s nice to switch things up, though. following behind the dumpy hostess, i tried to forget about the grease in my hair, my dusty moccasins, my paint-splattered jeans. i don’t know these people, i told myself. and there’s no point in showering early in this kind of heat when you’re just going to wind up sweaty; better to wait until the heat of the day when you can have a siesta and dry off in the breeze of the ceiling fan. we slid into a booth by the window. a baby was shrieking nearby. restaurants should have babies-only sections, i said, like how they used to have smoking sections. baby or no baby? he laughed at my stupid joke. our waitress was silver-haired, wearing cat-eye glasses and a 76ers t-shirt. the playoffs were starting that night. what can i get ya besides water, babes? she said. we both asked for coffee. you got it, doll-baby. she addressed us both, singular, as doll-baby. when she was gone, we looked at each other and started giggling. she’s a trip, babe, i said. what are you getting, doll-babe? he responded. we were cackling at that point. you want me to add onions to those home fries, babe? it’s real good, she told me when i ordered a california croissant. absolutely. you got it, babes, she said, taking our menus and continuing down the row of booths. i couldn’t get enough of her. i knew we weren’t special to her, just two of countless doll-babes. and i’ve never liked being called babe, so why did i find it comforting, maternal, alluring? it reminded me of one time when i must have been about five–hattie’s mom was driving us home from ballet, and when she reached back to make sure we were strapped in she said in a husky smoker’s voice–sounding much like this waitress–you got your seatbelt on, babe? and it startled me. my mom never called me babe. her pet names were softer, sweeter: honey, punkin, and darlin. i will admit that the home fries at melrose are subpar. at penrose they scallop the potatoes, and the diced onions were shining like little moonstones. the grilled cheese is better at penrose, too. “add tomato” is offered on the menu, not a special request like at melrose, and they know how to do it right. we were talking about what we’d change in our lives if we could go back in time. my list grew longer, but then i double-backed–if i hadn’t done this, i wouldn’t have met so-and-so, and that kind of thing. the conversation meandered to his former stepdad, idly wondering if he wanted to kill him how he’d do it. i said poison would be better than bludgeoning him over the head because that he might survive, or would it be better to do it rasputin-style: wrap him in a carpet and dump him in the river? i suggested he hire someone and he scoffed, saying it would be too expensive. i’d do it for you, i said, realizing as the words left my mouth that i half meant it. i poured some cream into my coffee and said i’d done things that were sending me straight to hell anyway, so what difference did it make? obviously i was joking, not about the things i’ve done, which he knew about, but about going to hell. i don’t believe in eternal damnation–hell only exists on earth. still, he looked a bit surprised. just then our waitress appeared, refilling our coffee. how you doin,’ doll babes, she said, and we said fantastic. an echo: babe, baby, babes, doll-babe, as she drifted from table to table. he stirred his coffee and said, they say the best revenge is living well, right? yeah, i guess. i’m living well, he said. 220416 ... epitome of incomprehensibility I love how I can picture all this. And imagine the server's voice. "Mon chou," an endearment from a teacher or neighbour-type to my younger self: my cabbage (affectionate). Plus, this makes miss local-ish diners: Murray's in TMR, which closed years ago; Chenoy's, which I simply haven't been to in ages. 220417 what's it to you? who go blather from