he fading, ember sunset stabbed its yellow streaks through the mashed potato clouds. The sun, melting lightly on the hilltops like a pat of butter, waved its final farewell. I was hungry. So hungry was I that I did what I never do.
I ate at a roadside diner!
Seven days traveling on foot builds quite an appetite within a man. Even a man such as I, high class, rich, handsome, born with a silver spoon, fork, and knife — infant mouth crusted with caviar. However, when the sight of rabbits and squirrels become enough to make your stomach growl, it is time to lower your standards. The diner was a ragged old place, broken with years, and coated with Father Time’s dandruff. It sat like a wooden corpse in a desert graveyard. A yellow light burned within, and again I thought of butter. I had to eat!
I made my way past battered cars and rusty trucks, as the wind attempted a free sandblasting on their painted skin, without asking the owners first. The neon sign, that half-heartedly displayed the diner’s name in the window, sizzled like a steak with a pinkish color of medium-rare.
The sign’s missing letters made me halt abruptly: Sarah Di e