Roy saw Greg as he entered the diner where they met up once a month.
“Been a day since I seen you, hasn’t it?” asked Greg.
“At least thirty of them,” Roy replied with the serious tone of a disappointed cat.
Greg sat and picked up the cup of coffee, milk and sugar already added in perfect measure, that Roy had ordered for him. He took a long sip and looked over at a couple that were both looking at their phones. “Looking at their phones instead of each other. Do you remember when people would come to a diner and just talk?”
“Sure. Do you remember when telling someone to call you meant you had to be home?”
“Of course. Do you remember when you had to watch television when it was on, or you would miss it?”
“I sure do.” Another sip of coffee, this time from Roy. “Do you remember when, if you didn’t know who somebody was on television, you just had to not know unless someone in the room knew?”
“Like it was yesterday. Do you remember when there were only twenty channels?” Greg sighed.
“Twenty? How about fifteen?” Roy sighed.
“That’s reaching back. But do you remember when kids would read books made out of paper?” There was in fact a child reading what looked like a tiny computer of some sort.
“I do indeed. Do you remember when you could go somewhere to buy a coffee and not hear people talking about soy this and vanilla that and no foam this and broolay that?” Instead of, say, coffee flavored coffee.
“The broolay is the worst. Do you remember when people kept their private matters private and didn’t shout about it on the bus?”
“How I miss those days. Do you remember when leggings were worn underneath clothing, not instead of clothing?”
“How fashion has faded! Do you remember when everybody drank milk?”
“You’re darn skippy! Everyone was tolerant. And everybody loved peanuts. Never mind those confounded allergies.
Each finished his coffee.
“Well it was real nice seeing you, Greg. I’ll see you next month.”
“You got it. I have it written down in my pocket calendar.”