nineteen

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Hart's is a town that comes alive under the sun.

As soon as summer arrives, the boarwalk begins to bustle with business: taffy is wrapped in glittery paper, pastries disappear before noon, cherries are placed on double or triple scoops. Suddenly, the town is brimming—spilling over—with people. With life. 

Then the storm blew in. And they learned to appreciate the darkness—getting there, at least. It only takes a match and a not-quite-allowed bonfire on the beach and a makeshift spotlight. Dusk—when the sky is still pale, holding remnants of the day before falling into darkness. 

High in the sky, the moon glows, just as brilliantly as the sun. Nights, we sometimes forget, are just as natural as days.

 Nights, we sometimes forget, are just as natural as days

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An event like this doesn't happen overnight.

The week leading up to Route 40's reopening is spent moving around tables and chairs, taping up illustrated posters on telephone poles and storefronts, and telling everyone in sight to come. Holding their breath and counting on word of mouth to spread as it does in a small town like Hart's. 

An event like this takes at least two sets of hands. Luckily, Aiko and Cole are up to the challenge. The two make a good pair even if sometimes, the biggest challenge is their own disagreement. Over something as small as how to properly hold a screwdriver. 

For the record, Aiko is usually right. She pokes his hand. "Your thumb should be at the edge." 

Cole doesn't budge. "This is more comfortable." The next time she pokes, he's ready, catching her hand in the air. Doesn't let go right away. 

It takes two to disagree. And two to compromise. 

"What about an open mic at the end of the night?" suggests Aiko. "Offer up the stage to people." 

Cole agrees on one condition: "Only if you step on stage." 

So does Aiko. "Only if I can do Wonderwall." 

Sometimes, it's debate on the function of things. Can pallets be made into a stage? Can pushing aside the tables and hanging up lights form a dance floor? Aiko points out that it has before, and it can again. It only takes dancing people. Most importantly, can the diner become more than a diner for one night? 

Cole states simply, "People will always come for the food." 

Not Aiko. 

"I love the fries as much as the next person, but it's the comfort," she counters. By which she means a quiet moment on a red seat to rest your feet for the night, being greeted by owners who know your name and treat you like family. In her case, a space to escape her regular life for a few hours with the boy opposite of her. 

He finally murmurs in agreement. 

They make a good pair, even if Aiko has some other plans and messages to send that she doesn't consult Cole on. 

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