Yvonne Battle-Felton

It is a brightly lit (green, pink, yellow) house, a shack perhaps but because the last time we were here she said I was bourgeois (bourgie to be exact), I really can’t say it aloud. Though I am afraid to touch, the walls look sticky, like tangy strips of melting candy. Toys are everywhere; she says, pleasantly, the décor reminds her of the house in Toy Story, the bad kid’s house.

I don’t disagree.

Star Wars, Pez dispensers, it is like a flea market. I have always hated flea markets. I study the menu to avoid the tightening in my throat, I am almost 5’8 and if I sit up straight, the table almost reaches my neck. If I slouch, the table reaches my chest. If I lean back, legs stretched and twisted before me, I look ridiculous. There is no comfort to be found. It reminds me of a grandmother’s kitchen I tell her, not my grandmother’s kitchen, because my grandmother could cook. So, it’s like a neighboring grandmother’s kitchen. One with salty cookies and sour milk—the ones to be avoided.

Six creamers and six sugars later, the coffee still tastes like coffee. I drink a cup of coffee every day, but I don’t think I actually like it. I am addicted to French Vanilla Crème and can be quite bitchy when I haven’t had any. I have had two cups today so my mood is inspired by this diner in which I find myself.