by Glen F. Green

I woke up on a cot in my office, slipped on my boots, walked down the street through the preamble of a blizzard, and was heartened to find the diner open. I drank plenty of hot black coffee along with Elvis’ Favorite (peanut butter and banana between two slices of sugar-dusted French toast with bacon on the side) served by a forty-something Pinky Tuscadero. I told her she really looked a lot like her and she tossed her red hair and said she knew. In between her wiping down tables and hustling out orders, we exchanged the highlights of the low points of our respective divorces. The jukebox played Lionel Richie’s “Hello” as we said goodbye. It is only for the surreal within the ordinary that I live.


Glen F. Green is a social worker from Worcester, Mass. He's had a short piece published in the Lowell Pearl. He tries to keep words trickling here.