Write a diner scene where an old movie star comes in and takes a seat next to you.
Outside the window, the sun had already begun hiding behind the edges of the pane. A dull orange glow filled the room as a long thread of light unzipped itself across the table. It illuminated an old soda stain in the corner; I tried to rub it off with my cloth. The stain refused to leave. I sighed, loudly — might as well, I thought, there’s no one around to hear it. The diner was always empty on Friday nights. Friday night was movie night, theater night, date night…work night. My body found its way to the booth opposite me and slumped down against the cushioned seat. I sighed, again. My eyes lazily followed that beam of light on the table; it began slowly snaking its way across the edge, only to sink off at the corner and disappear. I sank down further in my chair. The diner was now lit by the single flickering light bulb overhead. I felt the deadening pulse of the light around me and tilted my neck up to observe — I wonder how long it has left to live. In between flickers I saw a few specks of carcasses, dead insects and things, in the rectangular box above me.
Suddenly, the flickering died and darkness flooded the room.
Shit. How am I gonna change the bulb?
A bell rang in the darkness. I jumped.
That’s the door. Why now of all times?
“H-hello?” I called out into the empty space.