by Erin Jamieson
We dine in cheap diners where it is impossible not to feel some fragment of nostalgia. Too often, you are sipping a Shirley Temple and I am already across the room, starting up a novelty Jukebox, trying to conjure up the magic of a song whose words we have forgotten. On the best days, you smile a little, even set down your drink. But today your eyes are glossy and opaque, as if you’ve also forgotten how to cry.