Nope, she was "concerned for the safety of her other customers", (most of whom, by the way, had apparently NOT arrived yet). She was afraid that Cooper was going to go mad and bite someone.

I visit a restaurant I haven’t been to in years, called Olympic. It’s a greasy spoon diner run by an enthusiastic Greek woman and a disgruntled Irishman.

We used to get a table in the smoking room and drink coffee until 2 a.m. It’s in this smoking room Keith writes a poem called Ballad of Breasts about the owner’s daughter, a voluptuous redhead covered in tattoos. I don’t remember exactly the content of the poem but remember laughing continuously throughout, choking on my laughter when I reached the last line which read, I’d cum so hard I’d fart.

Then there is the table where Shay yells at me in front of a waitress for trying to have sex with her best friend while she is on her period.

There is the one where, after standing outside waiting for the bus to Buffalo State in the wind and sleet, I walk three blocks to Olympic where I order a cup of coffee and a southwestern omelet and thaw out reading Keats.

The night waitress always looked like a cartoon character I can’t quite place, and the cook, Rich, always wears scrubs and a bandana.

I order a broccoli and cheese omelet, after years before, thinking it tasted like sweaty sock.

I sit in the same booth Billie and I shared a few years back. Billie is a pale, thin, redhead who always dresses in black. Every Friday she wears a red mini-skirt. We meet every weekend for three months to eat Indian food, drink red wine, and have sex in my parent’s attic, where I have been living since the eviction.

This is the second time I’m in love at least it feels that way after we get high. It’s the booth she tells me she’s pregnant, where we clumsily dig through a slice of peanut butter pie and steadily drink hot chocolate. It’s the same booth I tell her I wish she weren’t pregnant before getting up and going to the bathroom.