Suburban’s the only place open this late so we slide into the red slicker seats, feet locked into orbit, knees chaste: against the checkered table our hands grasp empty space, separate by twos. Graveyard workers chug past, silent ships on a still sea. Grey-faced one asks to take our order specials falling off her tongue by rote, routine, and on instinct I ask for the two-for one cheeseburgers and a side of curly fries: “extra crisp” you used to chime in; smile in your eyes now you say none for me thanks.