the nevada diner

his favorite place to go was this less than impressive diner around the corner from their garden apartment home. it had a typical new jersey look to it, with 70s chrome and neon lights. we'd go for an early dinner (it was always early when we went out with them) but the place usually had plenty of customers. there were always rituals... my brother or me helping his wife from the car and walking her up the ramp... both of them eyeing the almond cookie in the plexiglass case next to the carrot cake or pecan pie... always asking us (neither of us liked almonds)"now doesn't that look delicious?" and in younger years, we'd both answer honestly, but as time passed, we learned the courtesy of white lies.

she'd order something salad-ish, with a slice of lemon as the only dressing, and he would often order the goulash, his lips pulling together into a tiny o as he said the word. of course she gave him a hard time as he perused the menu since he had so many restrictions on his diet. no sugar, no salt, no anything good. when the meal came, and i remember this moment, this particular moment so clearly... the decision, the one i would make the same way a million times over, because, in the end, it wasn't the salt after all... i made the decision to sneak him some pieces of contraband (pickle) when his wife wasn't looking. i quickly snuck a slice under the rim of his plate and watched him bring his hand slowly to his mouth. his lips closed around it like the aperture of a camera, and he and i smiled at each other as he discreetly chewed. she caught him, of course, but we shared that moment... that one moment that stands out in the past like a tiny candle flame, glowing small, but bright