Diners have always been sort of there, no matter where I am in life. I find myself coming back to them a lot in my writing, sometimes more than the bar scene I’m clearly so fond of painting in my head.
Maybe it’s because diners, like bars, are places where people just sort of tend to linger. There’s a tendancy to hang in space – a lack of urgency. You’ll find someone lazily staring into the folds of a newspaper with their coffee getting cold there much in the same way you’ll find someone staring off into space while the ice waters their cocktail down. I suppose that’s why, in my head, these places have always been strikingly intermediary spaces – little purgatories that exist as minute stopping points in between everything else. People have stories here – or at least they do everywhere, at all times, but it’s more evident.
Maybe because it feels especially like they’re on their way to something else.