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The day was like tomorrow.

The day is like yesterday.

A day.

Or so it seems.

M.J. Jones chuckles.

He’d read that someplace. Perhaps in a dream. Or in a poem.

Like there’s a difference.

Alone, he sits.

The diner, empty.

His attention on the menu. For the thousandth and one time.

He resists the urge.

Yet, his eyes betray him, drawn to the menu’s “Ocean Delite Fish&Chips”.

“With hush puppies and cold slaw”

He frowns.

You see, Mister M.J. Jones is a pedant (letters denoting his expert status, et cetera). The menu’s questionable word choice forms his daily flagellation (and later, daily flatulence).

You decided Professor Jones?

Sandy.

He hadn’t heard her. Caught up in the travail of a menu.

She stands, table side.

He looks up at her face. His look? Dumbfounded. This from an acknowledged expert with letters denoting such.

You look as though you see a ghost.

He laughs a laugh. Nervous. Only in my dreams.

Interesting dreams. Sandy smiles. Your usual, professor?

And so the World passes and Mister M.J. Jones, in a late-of-a-fall afternoon, closes his eyes and bathes in the sunlight a wide nearby window offers.