Was not the name of this diner.
I donít recall its name anymore.
It was torn down over twenty years ago.
given its prime real estate locale,
nothing has been built in its place.
Whatís left are open space memories by those of us who frequented it in its hey day.
I remember its dark faux paneled walls. The fake Corinthian leather seats that made your thighs sweat in summer. Chipped linoleum table tops always sticky from who knows what.
If the cigarette smell didnít offend you, the sour smell of drunken twenty-somethings choking down over cooked eggs and burned toast to sober up before heading home, would.
God, how I miss this place-
whose name I canít remember.
The wee hours spent discussing a successful night bar hopping.
Intense conversations of potential relationships that would never happen.
Inevitably we couldnít read the name that went with the scored number. Or, the lipstick used to write the digits bled and now it was anyoneís guess if it was a three or a five.
The old timers always sat at the counter stools nursing their coffee and pastry.
The college set always convened at the tables in the center- as if prepping for their future board room meetings.
The waitresses were as worn out as the filthy carpeting, but they enjoyed the hubbub of youthful energy despite dismal tips.
Good times, bad times,
tears or laughter-events that shaped who we eventually
became were all part of this diner.
Whose name I canít...
SLEEPY TIME DINER!