It’s never the thing you think that wears you down. Yes, you’re tired. Yes, you’re hurting. But it’s always the most random thing that floors you, isn’t it? The moment where you’re so done that your tongue can’t even be bothered to move. Your fingers clench refusing to uncurl. Your legs just stop and drop you straight to the couch. the bed. the floor. The weird counter at some diner in the middle of nowhere at 2 a.m. when you can smell the half-burned cholesterol wafting from the smoke in the kitchen and your arteries reflexively harden.

“Coffee. Black.” You give to the waitress who side-eyes you and grunts, sneers. “You ain’t from around here,” is written in her body language. And maybe if you’re daring, you try a slice of pie that she recommended to a regular (oh but not to you, Mr./Mrs./Mx. Coffee Black) that’s likely been on that damn counter since 1955. Maybe you take some home with you if it doesn’t churn your stomach immediately. Because no one in here with you looks human enough to have a home to return to.

They’ve all faded like half-crushed-out Lucky Strikes left to their fates in alleyway puddles. Their bones gleaming in the chrome surfaces that have been polished like the grill of a 1958 Plymouth Fury. No blood to be drained from any of these turnips anymore. You feel yourself melt into your seat, like you’ve always meant to be right there and have never been anywhere else. That’s when the waitress’s blood-red lips curl and she takes out her pen and pad, “Where’ve you been, Stranger?”

And you realize you’ve lost who you were, although you don’t remember why you should care. “I’ll take the special and make it as rare as the law allows.”

Maybe if the cheap steak’s bloody enough, you’ll feel alive again.