A place where the coffee’s as dark as the early morning light, and the pie crusts crumble like promises. It’s the kind of joint where the neon sign buzzes just a little too loud, and the waitress has a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You sit in a booth with cracked vinyl, wondering if the guy two stools down is a fisherman or just another lost soul trying to drown his troubles in a bottomless cup. In a place like that, even the sugar feels like it’s hiding something.
