Neon Stools

Sitting alone in the quite and empty room I began to wonder. Do neon colors make me feel younger?
Are hot dogs with soggy buns and preserved toppings the banner of a bygone era?
Why is there no background music?
Does this business even make money?
Maybe it's just a front.
I want a beer.
No, I'm going with coke.
I hate coke.
No, I only hate what it is not what it stands for.
I want the style of coke without the sugar - make it diet?
No, that's girly, besides I want some sugar. It's not like I'm having a salad.
Although pickles, onions, and tomatoes are kind of like a salad?
No, no, they're not.
Hmm.
Does this define my innocence? My childhood?

I used to eat hot dogs only with ketchup. Yet, oddly enough ketchup is the only condiment missing from my 'meal'. Is all this thinking bad for digestion. I know eating alone is. Mercy! Can't I just be ignorant? Can't I just be happy and eat my hot dog.

All the while the neon colored stools are staring at me like little children left out of the fun. The sound of the gas burners and refrigerator fans steadily hum. The woman at the counter carefully cuts onions for people never to come, and I want to cry. Not because of the onions.

I order another hot dog. Everything on it. But there's no ketchup - shame. This time the relish is too sweet and the bun annoyingly soggy; now that I think of it, so was the first. I don't regret this decision yet, but I will. And those damn neon stools. I want to chop them down like trees. Yet, somehow they are comforting, somehow they are me. It is not that I resent my knowing. I resent it being so to be known.

Why oh, why did money win? And who the hell is Casper?

I've been driving around for hours now, maybe I should go home.