The diner was a sanctuary of friction. It was clinking-clanking loud, greasy, and saturated with the smell of old coffee, fried potatoes, and onions. Every surface was sticky, the vinyl booth was ripped, and the waiter called Lidia and Dr. Varga “Hon,” completely flattening their complex emotional and professional relationship into a single, benign human cliché.
This was the perfectly imperfect anti-Sam environment.
Lidia, feeling a deep, physical hunger she hadn’t recognized in months, tore apart packets of sugar, the fine granules scattering across the laminated tabletop. Varga, equally wired, pulled the analog contact list (her leather address book) from her coat. If they needed to, they could write with their fingers in the sugar on the table so Sam couldn’t read it. Varga wrote with her index finger, “U OK?” like a secret message.
“Alright,” Varga said, her voice dropping low enough to be drowned out by the jukebox. “Sam thinks we’re running. They wil…
