“Ya are what ya make yourself, honey.”

I was slumped in my usual stool in the diner, sipping my black coffee. Next to me lay the rejection letter from the publisher.

“Ya know, my second husband, I think Jim was his name, tried to do the same thing as ya! Thought he was God’s gift to literature, he did. ‘Course, no one ever did tell ‘im that he was actually the Devil’s gift. That Jim didn’t do anything with himself…”

I looked up at Brenda, the head waitress. She was occupied with absentmindedly overflowing one customer’s cup of coffee.

“Aw, shoot! See what I do? I get lost in the past, and it takes a slap from the present ta bring me back!”

She quickly wiped up the spill, and continued, “Jim never did get ta much in life. Heart attack found him 6 feet under before he was 35! Always puttin’ stuff off to work on his precious novels, never goin’ out…”

Brenda sighed, and left to serve the waiting customers their coffee.

As she walked away, I heard her say, “Ya never know when death’ll take ya away…”