He could hear murmurings from the kitchen as he perused the breakfast listings.  The usual fare, eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, hash browns, in any combinations, juice, coffee, and in the fine print, "hot water for tea available". Closing the menu, he swiveled in his seat and noticed for the first time the newspaper in the corner.  It was moving slightly as though the patron had been looking at this stranger.  Looking further around the room, it occurred to him that there was something nondescript about the place.  Nothing really to date it.  No old calenders, no shiny new equipment, but neither was there a neglected look.  On the contrary.  It was a clean space, down to the black and white tiled floor.  Although the white tiles were faded in to a brownish tint, the floor was immaculate.
     As Amy came back through the door with the coffee pot still in her hand, "Are you ready to order?  The bread just came out of the oven, It's nice and warm, and we have fresh apple butter.  Mrs. Grimsley brought in a batch yesterday.  She's still getting some apples off her tree." She smiled, put the pot down after noticing that the customer hadn't touched the cup. "Oh, is there something wrong with the coffee? Too strong?  Too weak? People are funny about their morning joe you know.". She was pleasant enough.
     " No, actually, I don't drink coffee."  He managed to get in before she went on with some other detail about the coffee.
     "Oh, I am so sorry.  Tea?"
     "No thanks, a nice tall glass of orange juice would be nice."  He smiled at her as she wrote it down on her pad.
     "How about that breakfast?"
     "I 'll jut have the blue light special, eggs, scrambled, bacon, no ham, a some of that fresh bread, don't bother to toast it."  He was just an ordinary guy ordering an ordinary breakfast.
     After writing on the pad, Amy turned her head and instead of disappearing behind the doors, called into the back "blue plate 2 mashed and raw".  Then turning back to the stranger seemed to settle in for a conversation.  "You must be new here, passing through?"
     The customer looked at her, not annoyed at all for the intrusion into himself. "Actually, I'm here for an interview with the newspaper, 'The Journal'.  My name is Timothy."  He didn't offer a last name, but offered his hand by way of introduction.
     Amy took the hand, shook it slightly and then tinkled, "Oh, you must be the boy here to replace old Sam.  He's got arthritis so bad he can't write anymore and he refuses to use any contraption other then a pencil."  Timothy thought this rather odd, and asked, "Why doesn't he get someone to write or dictate for him?"
     "Oh no, not old Sam.  Besides, he's eighty two and said he needs to retire so he can see the world.  I think he's going into the city for a weekend."  She laughed easily again.  "It's nice to meet you Timothy, Can I call you Tim?  Thanks.  I'll just go fill Henry's cup and be back with that orange juice."  She slipped around the counter and went to refill Henry's coffee cup.  He still hadn't seen the man's face, but knew it was old because of those gnarly hands.
     When the breakfast arrived Timothy tucked in leaning on the counter with his elbows and taking a long swig of the fresh juice.  After eating, he reached in his pocket and took a out a pad and pencil of his own.  He thought he might get a head start and ask Amy about the town he was now considering as his new home.
     Had she lived here all her life?  Family? School? What did she know about the history of the place.
     "Well, this diner, or this town?"  She bypassed the personal questions.
    "Sure, the diner."  He wrote the word on the top of his pad. "What's it called?  I didn't see a sign other then the one hanging outside that says "Diner".
     "Yep, It is Diner.  That's it.  I don't think it ever had a different name." Amy pushed her eyebrows as if in deep thought. "No, I don't think it ever did have a real name."
     A shuffle of paper sounded from the corner and as Timothy turned in his seat, a pair of watery blue eyes peered over the top of the pages.  "Cafe'.  He grunted and the paper went back up.
     "Cafe?  Cafe What?"
     Again, the paper came down.  "Cafe" from behind the paper, "Just that, Cafe. "
     Timothy thought a moment and offered, "Well, when did it go from Cafe to Diner?"
     "Always been."
      Amy chimed in now, "Oh, that's right.  Some people do call it the Cafe Diner, Or The Diner Cafe"  She pushed her eyebrows together.  " That's funny.  I never really thought about it before."  With a 'hm', she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
     A moment later she returned with an older gentleman, maybe in his sixties.  He wore an old white apron hiding a pot belly.  Gray hair, unkempt, flour on his hands and towel tucked into the apron led Timothy to believe this was the cook.
     "This is George.  He owns the place.  Ask him about the diner."  Amy backed away.
     George stepped forward and offered his dusty hand, "George Andrews."
     "Nice to meet you George.  I'm Timothy.  I here interviewing for the newspaper job."  Taking George's firm grip he returned with a firm grip of his own.  "I was just trying to find out a bit about this town."
     Clearing his throat, seeming a friendly sort, George spoke, " Well now, I've been here all my life.  I own this diner, or cafe if you must know."  He smiled revealing an overly large whitish smile.
     Timothy returned the smile and asked if it would be alright if he took some notes.  George nodded and asked what it was he wanted to know.
     "Well, for one thing, how come it's just called diner?"
     "Well now, we never did come up with a proper name.  My wife, God rest her soul, wanted it to be a cafe, you know, one of those fancy coffee places that serves tea and sandwiches and fancy soups.   Me, I just wanted a good old fashion diner, you know, burgers, ice cream sundaes and such. So when Mildred, God rest her soul was working in between the kids, she called it cafe, and served coffee in tea cups and made them little cucumber sandwiches.  But I still made meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  So, depending on who you asked it was either Diner.  Or Cafe. Simple as that."
     Timothy smiled.  Amy piped in,"Hey George, I never knew that.  But come to think of it, when Mildred was here, she did always use that fancy teacup."  She pointed to the back counter where a lone, bone china teacup and saucer sat on what appeared to be a fancy doily.  The rest of the counter, as Timothy looked at it now, was a jumble of coffee pot,  sugar bottles, extra salt and pepper bottles, and a miscellaneous assortment of dishes and glasses.
    
The door jingled again and an elderly woman in a suit of moss green entered the diner.  She wore a hat from days gone by that sat on the top of her head, with netting covering her eyes.  In one hand she held a tiny dog with a ribbon on top of her head.  In the other, a green purse and a bag which she deposited on the counter next to Timothy as she swooped in.
    "Morning Edith." George gave a wave of his hand. "That more apple butter?  I only have a half bottle left.  It's the best."
     Edith pinched her lips together, "Yes of course it is.  I promised more this morning, and here it is.  Now would you be so kind as to have a hamburger broiled and cut up for Priscilla?"
     Priscilla, obviously was the the tiny dog in her arm.
     "As usual."  George gave a little wave and returned to the kitchen.
      These people must all know one another very well Timothy thought, by the way they interacted.  That was nice.  He hadn't been close with his neighbors in the city.  Too many people, too busy.  He liked it here already.  It was quiet.  There was no music here, but there seemed in the short time he had been here, to be a rhythm to the place.  The smell of the early morning combined with the easy  quiet talk.  He thought he could get used to this. This feeling of timelessness. Little did he know how timeless it was.

                                                                     Chapter 2