I hate how dusty it is here. Even inside the diner, everything looks hazy. Even the air feels dirty. I never feel clean anymore.

A waitress who looks barely out of high school eyes me as I sit down at the lunch counter. She waits until I've settled onto the stool to approach. Carafe in hand, she gives me a one word greeting.

"Coffee?"

"Please," I say.

She overturns a mug and fills it with the steamy liquid. She watches in silence as I add my cream and sugar. I love this part. Much more than the taste or the caffeine, I love the ritual of coffee. I pour a tiny little tub of non-dairy creamer into the mug. There's an explosion of white that seems to come from under the coffee. The color fades from near-black to milk chocolate. I tear off the end of a paper packet of sugar and stir as I add the sweet sand to the mug.

Finished with my preparations, I sip. It's hideous. The waitress is still staring so I lie by giving her an approving little smile.

"I am a connoisseur of album titles," she says.

"Are you now?"

"Easily the most interesting album title ever is Pete Townshend's All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes."

Its my turn to stare at her. We're silent for a moment as we look at each other.

"Yeah, that's a good one," I finally respond.

She stares a moment longer before placing a menu on the counter in front of me. She turns away without a word. I don't really understand it, but I think I was just tested, and I think I failed.

I hate how dusty it is here.