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I woke up on a wooded path. It was dark and I was severely hungover. Disorienting flashes of light came from some sort of generating plant nearby. I don't remember how I found my car, but I can see the night road curving away from Cornell University, away from my high school sweetheart. I didn't know that I would meet her only once more, but it felt like a final parting.
There was no one on the road. Nothing stirred in the fields on either side. I drove until I came to a diner with a light in the window and two pickups parked in front. I stopped and walked in slowly. Two men were sitting at one end of the counter; a waitress leaned against an entrance to a back kitchen.
I sat two thirds of the way along the counter so as not to intrude on the conversation. The waitress brought me a mug of coffee. Each sip was a tiny promise of new life. One of the men described a box that he'd built for his daughter. The box was about so big (hands held apart), about so high. No nails. No. A good box. Done right. For the daughter, you know. Mutual nods.
They left. The waitress and I talked, over a second coffee. "You sure you don't want something to eat?"
"Can't eat." I said.
"First breakup is the worst," she said.
When I drove away, the sky had lightened to gray in the east. I have done all my writing since in cafes, coffee and waitresses keeping me going. The box is with me, fresh as ever, empty but for the hope and love in it.