The Pumps, a diner owned by a high heel enthusiast, bustled with early morning traffic. Softly twinkling Christmas lights bordering the picture windows, the clatter of silverware on porcelain, and the smell of piping hot coffee created a cheerful, cozy atmosphere. Daesung was in heaven. He had loved kooky roadside diners ever since he was little.

His father was a truck driver, and when he used to take an exuberant Daesung along on cross-country trips during his breaks from school, he swore he had never been happier. They made it their goal to find the cheesiest diners with the most bizarre themes imaginable, and take photos so his mother could arrange them in a colorful scrapbook upon their return.  

The little bell on the door jingled merrily as a harried-looking woman dragging a distracted toddler entered the diner. She immediately smiled as the hostess approached her, calling her by her first name. Employees were on a first name basis with the customers here. If Daesung believed he still had a heart, he’d swear The Pumps’ sense of community just warmed the cockles of it.

It helped that Susanna—the server with the brightest lipstick and quickest stride—had just flounced over to top off their coffees and deliver steaming platters of breakfast food that smelled like paradise. She beamed at their enthusiastic displays of gratitude, asked if they needed anything else, and took off at the speed of light when they signaled that they didn’t.

“God, I love pancakes,” Daesung sighed.

“Pancakes? They’re called flapjacks.”

Seunghyun reached across the table towards his plate. Daesung smacked his hand.

“No, they’re called my pancakes.”

He managed to deftly snag a golden brown slice on his fork before Daesung could cover his plate with his arms. He glared over at the man, whose undeniably charming dimples made it difficult for him to continue feigning annoyance.

“Mmm,” he said. “They taste like flapjacks to me.”

Daesung stuck out his tongue. Seunghyun laughed. It was a wonderful sound.

“Pass me the honey, honey,” he said, making a “come hither” gesture with his hand.

“Pass me the sugar, sugar,” Daesung mimicked, even as he grabbed the jar.

“Pass me the baby, baby.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

They both cracked up. It wasn’t that funny, but if it meant that Daesung could hear that lovely rumble again, he didn’t much care.

“Whoa, there are so many kinds,” Seunghyun said, peering into the woven basket on the table. “This is serious business. Do you want white or brown? Refined or unrefined? Granulated or confectioner’s? Or do you want the zero calorie sweetener? There are at least three different substitutes. Blue, pink, or yellow?”

Daesung pretended to consider his options before speaking.

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“Sugar, sugar!”

They started laughing all over again.

Seunghyun had French toast (which he argued was called “eggy bread” in such a fervent manner that Daesung, giggling, insisted that he made the term up), sausage, and two fried eggs. He would loudly proclaim that his food was delicious and then offer Daesung a bite just so he could feed him off his fork, teasingly pulling away at the last moment. Daesung knew what he was doing.

It had been a long time since someone had flirted with him and he had sincerely flirted along. By the end of the meal, there was a heart drawn by Daesung on the condensation that had accumulated on the window, powdered sugar spilled on the turquoise tabletop, two empty, sticky plates, and two men with full stomachs and full hearts.

“If you had to have a nickname that was a breakfast food, what would it be?”

“Hotcakes,” Seunghyun said solemnly.

Daesung snorted.

“And what would I be?”

“Honey buns.”   

They laughed wildly. Families at nearby tables glanced over, but they were smiling at a tableau as sweet and old as time itself. At Seunghyun’s wave, Suzanna dropped off the check. The man took out his wallet and left way more than they were charged—certainly more than the requisite tip.

He scrawled a message on the bill as well; “For the best server of flapjacks and eggy bread we’ve ever had!” And even though he gave his tablemate a cheeky grin, nudging his calf under the table with his foot, Daesung would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat at his casual use of “we”. It implied a bond that spanned years of road trips: years of pancakes and French toast tried in every diner the two had ever stumbled across in the wee morning hours after driving all night, together.

In The Pumps Diner, surrounded by tacky motel art and mismatched shabby chic furniture, by overplayed Christmas carols and too many framed photos of the owner’s extensive shoe collection, Daesung felt happier being with another person than he had in a long time. Seunghyun’s eyes sparkled as he rose and extended a hand to him and—damn him—he was too attractive. His breath caught.

“I want to show you something,” the man said, and his voice was like seductive thunder.

He still didn’t know anything about Seunghyun. He had promised to tell him all about his life over breakfast, and all they had done was tell corny jokes and stuff themselves silly with grease.

“Come with me?”

If Daesung didn’t know any better, he’d say there was the hint of hesitation in his voice. That maybe he wasn’t sure if Daesung would come. That maybe he wasn’t confident that every single person would be his if only he asked.

Vulnerability in seemingly invincible men always did make Daesung melt.

“Okay.”

He took his hand.

Seunghyun smiled. He pulled him up from the booth seat, stepped beside him, and linked their arms. They left the diner, side by side, the bell jingling as they stepped out into the cool morning air, the sun ahead of them and miles of open road to conquer.

                                                                        *****