7th and King

There's a filthy diner on the corner of 7th and King.
The sort of place you can sit in and smoke and nobody says a thing because nobody who gives a damn has ever set foot there.
You know, the people who get all antsy when they're standing behind you in the convenience store when you're buying a pack of Camels but then they hop in their Toyota Camry and drive back to their home on Sycamore Lane or some other place with a naturey name where all the houses look alike and the neighbor is the nice woman who sometimes bakes cookies, not the guy who got hauled away by the cops last night.

The folks at the diner know full well what it's like to have a cigarette for their Sunday night meal. Sometimes they come in and order a cup of coffee and sit there for a smoke or two, or maybe as long as the waitress will refill their joe without giving them dirty looks.
They sit there and stare out the window onto the cruddy narrow street watching the guy selling fake watches or bootleg DVD's or some shit like that, but they see it special.

The window of this shit-hole diner shows something Sycamore Lane will never know. Maybe it's the grime and soot and smog from years of not being washed, or the chinks where someone shot it up with a pellet gun, but the stuff outside looks different.
There's something else there that nobody else sees. They just stand out there and look at the diner and say someone should call code enforcement, or second hand smoke kills too.