58 - Waffle motel.
joneworlds@mailbox.org

I drove  for a couple  of days up the  valley, but
not in any  kind of hurry or anything.  Have to go
easy on this  old beater volkswagen, and  I got no
time frame.  Eventually I just turn  into some old
motel  named  "Wednesday's   Inn"  a  little  past
Burloo, call it good  enough and I've been hanging
out there ever since.  It's got electricity on all
the time,  and there's a gas  station store across
the street where I can  get as much barbecue chips
and maxwell house instant coffee as I want. And no
ogres. Perfect.

There's like  hardly anybody  else but  me staying
here. Whenever I  go to the check-in  place to use
the vending machines or  whatever, the woman there
is always wanting to chat. Sort of. She's got this
table  set up  in the  corner of  the room  by the
window, and I kid you not, every time I go in, she
is there  making or eating  a waffle. She's  got a
little cooker, a bowl of batter, and it's like she
must be  sitting there  making and  eating waffles
all day  and all night.  And she always  offers to
share,  which  is  great,   because  sure  I  like
waffles. But it's like, whatever we talk about she
somehow steers towards  waffles. Really fast. It's
amazing.

"I drove here from near Vernham," I tell her.

"Hm. Yeah,  I went there  one time. Had  some good
waffles."

"Gonna be cold again tomorrow?"

"Mmm,  yeah,  they say.  But  I'll  make some  hot
waffles in here anyways, so drop on in."

"I got  to get  some parts for  this old  car, you
know any good place around here for that?"

"Oh yeah,  Pinder's, by  the co-op. You  know, his
wife makes really, really good waffles."

You get the idea. And  I try to talk about waffles
with her, I  do, but after a while I  guess I just
get a bit tired of it.