Jack, a hard working mid-twenties man comes home to find, Emma, his wife of four years packing up his belongings. Passively leaving without a fight, Jacks heartbroken soul carries him down a spiral of depression and pent up anger towards himself and the woman he loves.

Over a month since their separation, Jack’s depression gets the better of him and causes him to lose his job, the last thing he was holding on to for dear life. Confiding his deepest thoughts and feelings to a woman he knows only by the screen name “Starlis Angelus”, Jack finally understands the mistakes he made, and with a deep guilt and sorrow he sets off to find the piece of himself he lost years ago, a journey that begins at the grave of his daughter, and shall end where it all began.

The diner looked exactly like an out-of-nowhere diner should, especially since it stands adjacent to a hotel that resembles the one from Psycho… minus the spooky house up on the hill, and the nut job sitting at the window. At first glance you wouldn’t guess that the cook was pleasant, the woman behind the counter was nice, and the waitress was going to be sexy.

Jack, like most people, expected the cook to be a plump, grouchy man with more grease on his face then there was in the burgers; the kind of man that wouldn’t hesitate to not only spit on your food, but was likely to add some “secret sauce” to your meal at no extra charge. He expected the woman behind the counter to have a gap between her teeth that could fit a midget, and breasts that punished her bra each time the woman took a step or laughed. The kind of woman that tried her best to come onto each man that came into the diner; low self-esteemed, self degrading and just looking for some sort of validation from those of the male species.

And as for the waitress, well Jack expected her to be one of those local yuppies with dreams of becoming an actress one day. The kind of girl just waiting for her big break so she could escape this one horse town and never look back. He expected her to be semi-pretty, but far too slim to be considered Healthy, freckled features and greasy hair from too much time near the fryer. Yup, Jack mentally let his jaw dropped when he walked into that diner, and in some ways, it’s never closed since.

It’s been three months; since Jack left his hometown in search of things he couldn’t see or understand. All that time on the road, and he hasn’t gotten any closer to finding anything more than a nasty smoking habit, a sore back, and a five o’clock shadow whose gears have been stuck for months. Just looking at him, one would not fail to see a man who has nothing to live for, and nothing to lose, especially with his faded wrangler jeans, and gray t-shirt. All in all he looks like death run over, but his outer appearance is far better then the way he feels on the inside.

When Jack left his hometown, he hoped to get away from all his past mistakes, to take a moment to just breathe and figure out what went wrong. First having his wife divorce him with no explanation, becoming the shoulder to a woman he met online yet never learned her real name, and finally losing his job; everything happening so quickly was just too much for the mid-twenties man to deal with. He could have stayed home with his friend Phil, but his pride was just too strong to allow such a thing, and off he went. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or how long he’d be away, but all in all he never imagined he’d find himself driving on such a beautiful fall afternoon, in Michigan of all places, somewhere on Interstate 131, smack dab between I-115 and I-10; the height leg of an interstate triangle.

After double checking with his road atlas, he finds it ironic that he should feel like he’s lost in the Bermuda Triangle, when he himself is driving within one; life’s sick cynicism once again kicking in full steam. He probably would have never stopped for the night, but the chilly night air made him shut his window, which is not a healthy thing to do when one has been driving in a car for over a week without stopping for a bath. His rumbling stomach and the smell of sweaty butt checks were the deciding factors in him stopping at the “Truck and Haul”, a road side hotel with its own conveniently adjacent diner.

Getting a room for the night wasn’t difficult, especially since the usual lot of clients only stop for a night and continues on their merry way the next day. This is far from being a vacation spot, which Jack quickly noticed when a roach the size of Phil’s dog tried to climb up his leg and use him as a taxi. One stomp from his black timberland boots and Jack unknowingly committed an act of war against the dominant inhabitants of the hotel. Crawling away unnaturally, the roach went back for help, but in the meanwhile Jack for his key and went up to his room for a much needed bath, and some rest.

The room really wasn’t all that bad, at least the first wave of avenging roaches haven’t managed to pop out of holes in the wall like in that horror movie “Creep Show” when the Entomophobic old man was attacked by millions of roaches. Right now, the only thing on Jack’s mind is a nice warm shower, a good nap, and getting some food into his vacuous stomach. Not necessarily in that order of course.

After the long and much needed shower, Jack grabbed some clothes out of his Marlboro duffle bag, which was basically just another pair of well worn jeans, and a light blue shirt. Since he started his road trip of uncertainty, Jack traded his usual black slacks and drycleaner pressed shirts for more road friendly attire like jeans and baggy t-shirts. After all, one wouldn’t expect a road rat to wear formal clothes when searching for cheese, especially when they have no clue where to start looking.

Feeling a bit refreshed from his shower, he decides to head over to the diner and clog up his arteries the quickest way possible. Maybe if he had known that he would stepping into a life changing moment, he probably would have combed his hair a little, but seeing as he hadn’t developed ESP, he left it the way it was and entered through destiny’s door, with the worst bed-head in history.

For a truck stop diner, the place looked pretty damn clean, though Jack only hoped that the food was also. Helping himself to one of the empty booths facing the gas and diesel pumps, he couldn’t help but notice the slightly heavyset woman reflecting in the dusty window. Though the diner was clean on the inside, there’s nothing anyone could do about the windows with all the trucks kicking up dust on their way by.

The woman introduces herself as Darlene, “But everyone calls me Darla” she says with a warm smile that was far more compassionate then one would expect from a woman that runs a truck stop. “Another urban legend” Jack thinks to himself as he politely orders a cup of coffee after taking the menu from her hand. “D will be around shortly to take your order dear.”

With a shake of his head, he rests his back against the red padded cushion and closes his eyes, allowing himself a small sigh of comfort for finally being able to stretch his legs. It doesn’t take long before he finally spots exactly what he wants from the menu, the perfect meal to quench his deep hunger from the long hours on the open road. With determination on the tip of his tongue, he holds on tightly preparing to unleash his soulful demand to the woman who shall deliver to him that which his empty stomach most deeply desires. He hears her gentle footsteps coming closer to him, muffled weight cushioned on comfortable size 7 tennis shoes. And as the waitress stands before his table, with a pot of coffee in hand, and an empty cup in the other, words as delicate and serene as the Garden of Eden flow from the delicately cracking lips of a Goddess, “You want coffee, right?”

Still holding on to that determination, Jack peers deep into the baby-blue eyes, opens his mouth…. And watches her bored expression turn into pure laughter as his determination escapes from the tip of his tongue, takes a ride on a glob of saliva down his chin. In the slow moment it took for him to recognize that his mouth has been gapping open for God knows how long, the waitress tossed him a napkin, poured him his coffee, and announced that she’d be back after he wiped the puddle off the floor. Jack knew there was no puddle, aside from the one under his chin anyway. And with the last ounce of dignity he had left, he wiped his chin, and poured the milk and sugar into his cup.

After a few minutes of cussing himself for being stupid, she returned and without looking her in the eye, he ordered his medium rare cow, melted cheese, and oil boiled potatoes… or as they say in diner-talk, “A cheeseburger and fries”

With a small smile, she wrote down the order, collected the menu, refilled the cup of coffee, and walked away; all while Jack watched the sexiest butt he’s seen in a long while, walk away. “Good job dingus, you finally talk to someone that isn’t a figment of your imagination and in less than a minute you manage to make the worst possible first impression in the history of human evolution.”

Jack is anything if not his own worse critic.

The meal was served by yet another fresh cup of coffee, the lifeblood of the weary motorists of the world. Here at the truck stop, coffee is not just a luxury, it is a necessity; much like whipped cream on apple pie, or water to a fish; those who do not indulge in the ambrosial nectar of God herself, are surely doomed to an undeclared eternal slumber of the blacktop. When Frank, the owner and cook, first opened the diner years ago, the coffee had been as thick as tar, strong enough to wake the dead, and the best damned paint remover money could buy… not much has changed in 37 years.

Most of the regulars know this diner as the last refuge of the damned, because it is the last decent rest stop a trucker can find until they leave South of Michigan. The rest stops along the way are the kind of place you will read in a Stephen King novel; dirty and dusty, with a cook as fat and greasy as a Virginia ham. The kind of place where cars run with no driver, aliens stick probes where the sun don’t shine, and the gates to hell erupt with a thunderous roar that rumbles down the hills for miles. “Truck N’ Stop”, is as clean as a dirt covered road will allow, has the best cheese fries this side of the America/Canadian border, and has the most beautiful waitress most of the regulars will ever lay eyes on, a woman known adoringly as, "Diamond".

While munching on his perfectly cooked burger, Jack could not help but look over at the counter where she was sitting on a stool. Her dirty blonde hair tied back into a ponytail, frizzed from overexposure to the heat and splattering grease of the grill, deeply needing to be both brushed and cleaned yet still managing to give her a very sexy and human quality. The distance between them could not hide the blue of her eyes, or the deep sadness that hides behind her forced smiles and seemly flattered giggles. For a brief moment, Jack was mentally rushed back to over three months ago, when he stood before his wife, Emma, and felt more than heard her shattered heart weeping down the stairs of a place he once called home. Her soulful eyes that once held a deep love and admiration for him, had darkened as their candle of love slowly flickered down to nothing but smoldering ash; the last burning embers, of a burnt out wick.

His retrospective gaze, broken by the realization that he too was being stared back upon by someone who understands exactly what is going through his mind. For the second time since they met, Jack feels himself blush a deep crimson, which is softened somewhat when she comes over to refill his coffee cup, and playfully sticks her tongue out at him.

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, as the voices in his head seem to have taken a brief and glorified nap, and with no room or strength left to eat another bite, Jack raised a hand to Diamond, so she could give him his check. “Anything else for ya shugah?” she spoke with an underlining southernism that was not lost on him. “No thanks, I’m good.”

With a cheerful smile, she passed him the check as her tired eyes watched deep for any sign that he would turn into yet another one of those dumbass jerk truckers that commonly pass through here. Typically, their response to her question would be something along the lines of “Sure can honey, why don’t you sit on my lap and we can talk about it?” or the more even common slap to her rear as she walked away; somehow she knew that he wouldn’t do either, and she was glad that her intuition was spot on. Years of working here at the diner have taught her how to read people like a book, especially since she walked alone at night to her simple hotel room. “You take care now.” Was all she said as she walked away, and was glad not to have his hand grab her tired cheeks, and while part of her mind kept reminding her that she would be off work soon, the other half thought, “Thank God, I seriously am not in the mood to knock his teeth down his throat. Plus he’s too cute to be missing a few teeth.”

Going back to clear up the table, she couldn’t help but smile when she finds a nicely folded ten dollar bill, with a poorly drawn smiley face, with it’s tongue sticking out.

Inserting the cardkey into the door, Jack couldn’t help but smile contently, mostly since it has been over a week since he actually slept in a real bed. With a full belly, a smile from a beautiful woman, and the most comfortable Queen sized bed he’s had all to himself in months… he was definitely in paradise. With all this in mind, he couldn’t help but stare sadly at the bed, as the familiar tickle in his back of his mind that told him that he needed to work on his writing. Ever since he started writing short stories back in High School, Jack has been both blessed, and cursed with these spontaneous impulses to write, which is exactly why instead of stripping down to his underwear and socks so he could crawl into the comforting sheets and cushions, he was grabbing his padded carrying case, and setting up his laptop.

His writing took a backseat in his life once he married and began working fulltime. Many nights he would find himself on some airplane flying thousands of miles above the ground to some seminar or meeting, and he’d scribble a few words onto a napkin or a notepad file on his laptop. Never truly forgetting his passion, but not quite embracing it either, he just put it on the backburner but all that changed when he suddenly had a surplus of spare time to do nothing but think and dream.

Everyone has a ritual in everything they do, and Jack is of no exception. The light humming of his PC becomes the lull that will eventually ease him into his soul-searching trance. There are only two moments where the world around him disappears, one is when he is engrossed in the fixing of a computer, and the second being when he is passionately working on one of his stories. Jack is by no definition a great author, but his story writing has become his one escape from the trial of life.

After plugging his headphones and playing the first in his eclectic mix of music, Jack quickly and deliberately commits his thoughts to the digital pages of his novel. He barely notices the quickening pace to which his heart is beating, or the rapidity his fingers move when he types; so routine this has become that he hardly even looks at the keys anymore. Spelling mistakes are ignored as his fingers fly over the keyboard, leaving behind nothing but the light rap tapping that he can’t hear over the loud music in his ears.

His mind and heart racing, Jack fills the empty blue canvas of his word processor with white multi-lined shapes of English decent. In just a few moments, he paints the next scene in a painting that he has worked on since the very first moment that he sat down to toy with the idea of story writing. His main story that began with just one character, now has a cast of over twenty; each with their own personality and history. Sometimes Jack sits in amazement at just how far he has come in this story. Years ago it began as nothing more then a simple short story to help clear his thoughts from the hardships of his youth, and now he guides these characters almost like God leading his flock to the promised land. With each new word he has written, new life was given to these characters; making them as read to him as any co-worker or family member. Figments of his imagination that have become the incarnation of his fears, his hopes, his joys and guilty pleasures; his children of the mind.

Though the words are few and brief, the act of typing it took close to an hour. Dwelling deep into his well of imagination, he continues to paint a tale of events that span well beyond any experience he has ever witnessed, yet seem as real to him as the day his daughter was born. Plunging deeper, guided by the beats and rhythm of the music at his ears, he continues well past midnight, and well past the point of exhaustion, and when he finally stops and crashes on the bed, the final words he typied run across the surface of his mind, cascading ripples of electricity flow downward towards the corners of his mouth and cause a smile to breech the otherwise exhausted expression on his face.