Waffle House, you’re the only thing holding me back from being a true Georgian. I’ve lived in Atlanta for four years and have yet to walk through your doors. Last time I went to Waffle House, I was cursed. That was June 24, 2007.
Thank you for your kind offer, really. It is sweet of you to offer me eternity in Staples with you. The hum of running computer fans and smell of warm copy paper is incredibly enticing to me, it really is. But this isn’t something we should rush into.
I’m sorry to have broken your glass. Judging from the sizeable gash it left in the side of my rear passenger-side tire, it was a footed pilsner–not a common find in many people’s kitchen cabinets.
When I said good morning, you were walking away from me, pushing a rusted green wheel barrow down the walkway.
I was standing in the parking lot. Looking for the source. A six-pack in each hand.