She runs the Diner of Diners called “End of the Metaverse Eats” serving up Pan-fried Dreams with a side of black-eyed peas and, on Fridays ONLY, braised Collard Greens with all the Fixins, and the iced tea flows and flows and I sit counter-wise as the sun slides down for zenith in the clear afternoon sky and I tell her her food is beautiful like she is while all the while I wolf down a fat slice of RadarRange-warmed Apple Pie (the Death Valley Original Recipe!!) and I am conscious of the Reality of It, of this time slice of a moment we both inhabit simultaneously as she refills my 10-ounce white ceramic coffee cup with her finest Joe and she smiles and says in the voice of a fallen angel, to wit:
“Ribs tomorrow.”
I arise.
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