“OK, honey,” says the waitress, pouring coffee, carried in anticipation, a vestige of a proficient breakfast waitress.
As she drifts amongst the tables, tossing quips and splashing coffee Tolz gazes on the vision wistfully.
Mike, observing the hang-doggedness of Tolz’s demeanor says, “Could be your granddaughter.”
Living’s adorned the men with scars and color. Their hands that engulf the coffee mugs, or rub the stubbled jaws are ham-like, calloused, and abraded.
“I don’t mean like that, I mean when we was.”
“Yeah, when we was.”