Lit Up Like the 4th of July

I took advantage of my solo bachelor weekend by having brunch at a diner that Deborah doesn’t like.

In the old days, I probably would’ve struck up a conversation with the lanky, tattooed waitress with the Sophia Loren glasses and the knock-out knockers — or tried to anyway, depending on how receptive she was to all my half-assed witticisms — but these days I can barely communicate with my closest friends let alone attempt charming small talk with strangers so, instead, I finished eating, refused a refill on my coffee and asked for the check all within fifteen minutes of sitting down.

I hadn’t been to the place in a couple of years and was surprised to find that, unlike the rest of Williamsburg, it really hasn’t changed much. Oh, I suppose the crowd was a little less interesting than it used to be, but, well, aren’t we all?