The Movie Theater

There are no pale colors in a diner. (Bottles of ketchup and mustard are a good example.) Waitresses are always a vivid pink, even when they're not. The diner’s shapes are distinct and ideal (round, symmetrical). Jukeboxes perfect arches, bar stools topped with perfect domes. The waitress is a cone with an apron tied at the point of her waist.

The ugliest woman in the world takes a big, shameless gulp of orange juice. She grabs a knife and slices through a pristine stack of pancakes, four whole pancakes high. (The world inside the pancake is elastic, fluffy, and buzzing, alive with sweetness and steam.)

The chef's job is to spark life to the batter (for each pancake expands in its own Big Bang). The waitress maintains the diner as a place where orange juice is always abundant and flowing, where stacks of pancakes spring up spontaneously.

The ugliest woman in the world chews with her mouth open, obviously. Her teeth are extremely present and extremely rude. Her mouth is neither a strict entrance nor strict exit. Soggy bits of pancake are thrown in all directions. The waitress won't look directly at it.