Anonymous

by Anonymous on January 22, 2026

He likes his coffee with milk and two sugars, his eggs scrambled, his toast burnt, and his barstool—the third one from the end of the counter. At least, he likes to think it’s his barstool. He’s been sitting there since he was a young boy, when his legs used to dangle underneath him like vines and a cheeseburger only cost 50 cents. He had a gap-toothed smile then, and a face full of freckles that have since metastasized into the age spots on the backs of his hands. 

Time has stood still here, bolted to the ground like the base of the stool that he sits on. The frames fixed on the walls hold portraits of old beauty queens and faded snapshots of old hometown landmarks that were torn down years ago. Through it all, this room, with its chrome finishes, vinyl booths, and squeaking barstools has held down the fort, a last veteran among the rubble of the good old days. Back then, suited businessmen sat shoulder to shoulder in squadrons at the counter before catching the next train to the city. The trains barely run here anymore; he often feels like he sits at the last stop at the end of the universe. 

 A few years ago they tore off the old taupe wallpaper that sparkled under the haze of its own grime, memories smeared into its stripes by grubby-handed children covered in grease and ketchup. The new tile is teal and shiny and far too garish for so small a space. Worse, it is easily cleaned and he knows its slick, cool surface will not be able to grab memories by the hand the way the wallpaper could. 

He orders his food and wishes that the walls could still talk and his legs could still dangle off the edge of his stool. His coffee is burnt and he knows his toast won’t be, so he sits at the end of the world and waits for nothing to change.