(Part 2 of  The Diner story. . .  I started where I left off. . .  I wonder if Dickens did it this way?)

The coffee wasn’t as good. The pie was stale. The sugar jars were never full and there were ketchup fingerprints on a window or two. It seemed that the whole place was flat, like soda pop left open too long.

Then one day, she was back. She seemed shy at first, and too thin. There were dark circles under her eyes. She lost a little zip. But The  Blue Plate and Phyllis were good for each other. Soon the glass sparkled and the days got bright again. She laughed and joked with everyone again and danced like a hummingbird.

The good old days were here again. And the coffee flowed in rich brown rivers and the meringue perked up on the top of each key lime or lemon or coconut pie. Everybody came to The  Blue Plate for the food but, like they say on the Food Network, it was all about the presentation. And back then, Phyllis was the presentation. Buffalo china, chrome, and a squat round coffee pot were her medium. Each big smile and bigger tip was its own reward. 

But the Harley riding James Dean look alike husband of hers didn’t like his woman working.  That’s how he said it, ‘his woman.’ As if she wasn't a national treasure, like she didn’t belong to every hardworking hamburger eater in Rogers County. 

And, during that time, if you were there when the Harley roared up you could see her cringe. You could see her wince and her bottom lip tremble. If you timed it just right, or, more likely, just wrong, you could hear an argument hotter than the grill, erupt in the kitchen on the other side of the swinging door.