A total blank. The page pristine white, waiting like the face of a diner waitress at 4am. I search the white oval moon of her face and sad eyes, but find only a trace, a hint, like a childhood scar of a life without burgers and malted shakes. The faded neon casting its pinkish glow on our plates, French fries like delicate fingers; you can almost picture them playing the piano. The ketchup almost too much, all that’s missing is the obligatory soundtrack gently forcing you in its desirable direction, the ubiquitous Hollywood happy ending. They are out of lemon meringue pie.