Friday Nights at the Diner

Every Friday night, after the school football game, our family stopped at the same little diner on the edge of town.

I remember the red booths, the smell of coffee, and the sound of plates being set down behind the counter. My father always ordered the same thing, and the waitress never had to ask what he wanted.

I was usually too full for dessert, but I still walked over to look at the pie case before we left.

It was not a fancy place, but it felt like part of our family routine. Even now, whenever I smell coffee and grilled onions together, I think about that diner.