The passing of each fly she swatted was marked with a muttered "Goodbye". I’d stopped at a small diner for breakfast. Yellow melamine counter. Stainless steel round stools, topped with green plastic. A sign above the serving hatch said simply "Kissin don’t last Cookin do". Country and Western in the background, words barely distinguishable. Homely feel.
I’d struggled to decide between a stack of pancakes and an omelette. Eventually plumping for the latter. Drizzled with melted cheese, a couple of thick bacon slices wrapped up inside. Departing suitably charged for a day on the road, my overnight stop ten miles or so back at Brenda mostly closed. The Country Store out of business. The campground cafe not open until eleven.
