I run a local diner down Chester Ave. It sits on the corner that gets too much sun come Summer, and the wind tends to whip the front door open in the Winter. If you go down past the local cinema, I forget what they call it now, you can see a red sign that never really turns off. Christmas morning and Easter Sunday I’ll flip the switch, but other than that, I’m here.

Anyway, every Tuesday Norman shuffles in and sits at the last barstool to my left. I am always sure to keep it open for him because he likes to use the brass railing when he sits. Honesty, we don’t talk too much. Tuesdays tend to be quiet, so I’ll sneak in some extra cleaning and busy work between his usual order. Always Raisin Bran Muffin, toasted, extra butter. Balance is key, right?

One thing about Norman, he dresses to the absolute nines. Shirts over-starced, shoes are polished with grease that was outlawed in the 80’s for environmental reasons, and white hair is neatly parted to the side. Sal, who runs the barber shop two doors down, told me two years ago that Norman shows up every other day for a fresh straight blade shave. He’ll hand him fifty cents each time, and Sal doesn’t have the heart to tell him the cost has gone up in the last twenty years.

Today I slid him his fiber-rich morning treat and wiped some extra bacon grease from my hands with my apron. Norman smiled and stirred his extra creamy coffee. I don’t know why I asked him, but I meant it more as a compliment than anything.

“Hey Norm, what’s the occasion every Tuesday?”

“Why are you so dressed up?”

He didn’t even lift his head.

“Because Connor, any day could be my last, and I want to look sharp when I see her again.”

D.K.