In September, I was at this all-hours diner at the kind of hour where all the people wouldn’t really be there. It was the sort of place where they keep the tabletops clean to make it seem as though it would be alright to eat there, but it really isn’t and all the waitresses know it. I was sitting in one of the booths by myself thinking about how every single place like this chooses red upholstery that looks like plastic. There was only one other guy there and I don’t think he was thinking about the upholstery as he sat at the booth across from me.

“Looks like it’s just me and you, baby,” he said, and I ignored him. “Could I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you.”

“Funny question for me to be asking in a place like this, you’d think. I just thought maybe I could get you a coffee or something.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, this time glancing up at him. He was wearing fingerless knit gloves. That’s all I remember.

“You’re not thirsty? How about I get you something to eat?”

“I’m really alright, thanks.”

“You’d be surprised, but they really know how to make a breakfast spread here. You look like you might like pancakes…” and here he trailed off, realizing that his rambling was not eliciting a response, before he moved to sit in my booth across the table from me, “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this with me?”

I was reading something from a list of poems for a class I had to attend on Monday and I didn’t look up from it as I told him, “I’m not here with you, and if you would excuse me, I’d really just like to go back to what I’m doing.”

He laughed, and I wondered what his face must have looked like, but I didn’t look up at him. I looked over the edge of my book at his fingernails — immaculate, and the gloves were brand new too.

He stayed silent for a while and then spoke up again, “Let me rephrase my question. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I didn’t answer.

“Hey, I didn’t even suggest we knew each other that time. I’m just a polite stranger who deserves an answer now.”

I looked up at him this time and asked, “What kind of place is this exactly?”

“The kind that all the kids from the bars and clubs — or wherever else they can get alcohol around here — come to after the night’s waned. You know, with all the greasy food and whatnot. That’s why this place stays open this late.”

I went back to looking at my book.

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“Why can’t I be doing exactly what you just described?”

“You just don’t look like that kind of girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, nobody really carries around a book of John Donne’s poetry for drunken reading.”

“Maybe I just didn’t get drunk enough.”

“Oh, really?” He said in the tone of something just playing along. “What happened to you then?”

“How do you know I wasn’t at a party at…” I looked outside the window at one of the large houses turned student housing complex, “366 Johnson Street? And that I just left in a rush because I had this really loud fight with my boyfriend on the front steps about Marie-Rose. She was hosting the party and totally not acting like you should with another girl’s boyfriend, you know? Anyway, he threw away his ring out of the pair we’d bought, and so I —”

He interrupted me, “You’re really good at that. I like that you cared enough to put in a name for the girl. Now, why are you really here?”

“What makes you think what I’m telling you isn’t true?”

“Firstly because you’re still talking to me, but also because you aren’t wearing a ring.”

“What ring? Oh, my boyfriend’s ring… how do you know I didn’t take it off?” I said shuffling around for words to keep up the game we had going.

“You didn’t. That’s how. So, I’m going to ask you again: What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He propped his elbow up on the table and rested his chin in the palm of his hand.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“The kind that carries a journal around everywhere.”

“Well, if you’ve been paying attention, I don’t have a journal of any sort with me right now.”

“That’s because you’re reading. And maybe you don’t have one with you now, but you sure know how to tell a good story.”

I shifted in my seat a little uncomfortably.

“I’m right, aren’t I? Girls like that — girls like you — don’t really spend their nights in places like this after getting wasted.”

I was getting a little irritated by his generalizations at this point, “What kind of girls are you talking about? Do you really think it’s that simple to typecast every girl who’s carrying around a book? This isn’t a movie where all of them have the same favourite author and wear eclectic band t-shirts and have a rebellious phase right before some major turning point in their lives. You’d be surprised by what girls like me are like.”

“I’m not talking about every other girl in your philosophy lecture, sweetheart. I’m talking about you.”

I began to say something but he stopped me saying, “And you can’t really tell me I don’t know every other girl in any of your classes because you don’t either. You’re too busy writing about what you think they’re like. Just like I’m talking to you about what I think you’re like.”

“I was actually just going to say that I’m not taking philosophy.”

He laughed again, “You’re a writer. Only the writers ever come here at times like this — strategically between the crowds. I’m just giving you something to write about.”

“You’re wrong,” I said.

“We’ll see about that when you’re done writing about me. I’m telling you, I’m just giving you something to write about. So just thank me before I leave,” he smiled and anticipated a response.

When I didn’t say anything he got up to walk out and chuckled as he called over his shoulder, “Fancy meeting a girl like you in a place like this.”