(Or maybe it’s 2713 N 45th?)
The diner crashed down. Frank dropped his omelette plate on the floor (Farmer’s Banquet Omelette, side of bacon and a cup a fruit) and you just know he wasn’t gonna clean it up. Flora sighed and mopped the spilled coffee up off the counter, because what else was she gonna do? No one else around there was gonna do it. Marge pulled herself back up into the corner booth and went back to slurping her coffee and doing her sudoku. UNflappable, our Marge. Geraldo, the cook, shouted “Order up!” and slung the two eggs poached, two flapjacks, and a whole mess a bacon onto the counter, squinted through the window, and said, “Seem to have landed.” Flora nodded, grabbed the plate, and dropped it off at my table. Well, there was nothing to it but to tuck in, so I did. Not every day your diner survives a flight-by-tornado. I heard the sound of some faint, high-pitched voices outside, singing, and growing slowly louder…