Melanie stared at the bright blue sign on a stainless steel diner two blocks off the main drag.
“The Madison Diner, founded in 1953? This looks like the sort of dîneur that hasn’t changed the grease in its fryers since 1953,” she teased him, though it did smell splendid; comfort-food smells wafted through the doors so thickly she could taste them on the air.
She wore her French accent in public like a second skin. It kept people at a distance, though Joshua simply ignored such barriers and continued to treat her the same. She was having a terrible time this afternoon remaining focused on any one thing that wasn’t Joshua. She turned firmly away to inspect their diner.
It did look as if it had been teleported right out of the fifties. Stainless steel as far as the eye could see with met
