TOILES

flattened memories

Joakim silently chews a saucy vegan sandwich at the Court Square Diner. It’s 11:30 p.m. in the Long Island City area, and we needed a break. We stepped into this Hopper-like bubble that’s open 24/7. The neon lights and the jet lag invited us in. It is busy but serene here. The music is quiet. The door is steadily swinging, swishing open in a way that invites anyone to sit at a clear, shiny table inside a little booth like a train compartment, settle onto a leather bench, and order anything on the menu. From breakfast to dinner: Fresh Country Eggs, Ultimate Omelettes, Specialty Sandwiches, Triple Deckers, and French Toast. Decaf coffee and hard liquor flow on tap. Simply order a milkshake—Reese’s Pieces or Black & White—and add peanut butter for an extra dollar. The Court Square Diner has been serving the community since 1946. The continuous service moves fast and smoothly. It took about five minutes for fresh, shiny food and hot drinks to arrive on the table. We keep ourselves awake in this dim cacophony that keeps pace with the momentum. It’s as if we were standing inside an American movie, glowing in a material hyperreality. The clinking door smoothly brushes across the floor, just as our knives glide through pancakes soaked in maple syrup. The golden liquid pours from the jar, drowning XL blueberries that taste like purple sugar and baking soda. It sticks to the table, to our hands, and to our minds. And this vegan cheese in the sandwich—it’s so damn sticky. If the whole diner burned down, the only thing left would be the vegan cheese. Just like this, some things can hold onto you for no reason. These are the things that remain after fires. I wipe my fingers on a paper napkin and look at my shiny pancakes. A big chunk of butter weeps yellow in the heat. They break like sweet foam when I skewer a piece through a couple of berries. My fingers are still sticky. The cheese feels like an obvious truth—long overlooked, yet always there. I can’t wipe it off. So if the diner burned down, the truth would come to light through what appeared to be a tragic accident. A slice of cheese, sticky as hell, like a bad song stuck in your head. This adhesion migrates—from cheese to thought, from syrup to language. Long after the taste is gone, the motion remains. No napkin can do anything about it.

It’s wonderful how a thread of thoughts can lead you through the most uncanny connections. If you built a necklace from all of them, it would look patchy and nonsensical. You’re tasting a piece of cheese, and its flavor reminds you of a toast your friend Robert made for you some years ago. He had brought up his struggling relationship with this girl—what was her name again? Donna? Melanie?—let’s call her Melanie. The thing is that Robert and Melanie had trust issues: promises repeatedly broken that never got truly repaired. It frays a relationship, you know. He felt helpless because she—yes, it was her—couldn’t be held accountable. He had started reading her ordinary behavior as possible evidence of inconsistency. Looks, delays, her voice, her silence—everything had become loaded with this meaning for him. When she looked back at him, it was as if he blamed her for his own habit of leaving his socks on the floor beside the hungry laundry bag. “I no longer know when she is sincere,” Robert stated as he placed the toast on your plate. And with it, a pinch of silence. An angel passed by, and you thought then that maybe the toast tasted a bit like unsalted bread, even though it had cheese to make up for it. Robert’s intention was not to give all the salt away to the conversation, but he did. Was it toasted sincerity or betrayed cheese? You couldn’t really tell; both had been grilled. You might have needed a little rest, and to be alone. Why not sit on a leather bench, like the one on which I am sitting right now? Why not order some Delicious Patties, without cheese if possible? Is it you or me sitting here? We’re both back at the Court Square Diner, both back to the topic of cheese, and the necklaces of our thoughts intertwine like twigs in springtime. You read on the menu: ”A flame-broiled burger on grilled rye bread with melted Swiss cheese and grilled onion. Served with French fries. Served on a toasted bun with coleslaw and pickle.” But you end up opting for a strawberry milkshake because this conversation about relationships melts you down, bringing back thoughts of your own past relationships. At this point, what you need is just milk and sugar.

Then I have a question for you, the girly drink drinker. Did you ever wonder how many times flight attendants say, ‘Milk or sugar?’ over the course of their careers? If they kept count, would they be concerned? Would they feel like constant, rehearsed versions of themselves? But it’s part of the job. It’s something they have to say nevertheless, mechanically. They say it so often that they become entirely detached from it. It probably slips into their dreams from time to time. To this simple question comes a simple answer: ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Then the paper cup is handed over with the chosen liquid, exactly the same whether it comes with or without condiments. Because it is not about the milk or the sugar, not even about the beverage itself. Their meaning disintegrates into the gesture; their substance and taste dissolve like sugar in the warmth of the cup once it is served. It’s about the stickiness of repetition, about the experience of four syllables: “Milk / or / su / gar”. It’s an emotionally reassuring square built from words, with each beat carrying the same weight. No rise, no fall, just placement. Perhaps something even flatter—predictable as pre-dictated? The kind of rhythm that doesn’t ask you to follow it so much as to accept it. And in that acceptance, it becomes clear that this already resolved sentence—the flight attendant is already holding the cup, their other hand close to the condiment compartment, the passenger waiting for a hot cup to fall into their hand—has overtaken its meaning before fully unfolding the four syllables.

Joakim is finished with his vegan sandwich, and it’s getting late now—2 a.m., which is still a reasonable 8 p.m. for us. Before leaving the Court Square Diner, I unfold the bill.

VEGAN MEATBALL SANDWICH $11.95

GOLDEN BROWN PANCAKES $10.95

BREWED DECAF COFFEE $2.75

BREWED DECAF COFFEE $2.75

Pancake extras Fresh Blueberries +$2.00

Total: $30.40

We pay the bill, step out of the diner and pass by a grocery store to get some water.

I was surprised to see that, in 2025 in America, bottle lids are still detachable from the bottle itself. You open a bottle, and the lid stays in your hand. It doesn’t scrape against your lips as you drink. Europeans forgot that sensation many years ago. So you’d better be careful not to drop the lid, because if you do, you’ll have to drink it all at once. What’s on your mind as you drink a Coca-Cola? “Don’t lose the lid?” You’d get a fuzzy stomach from it. And if you were a drink, what substance would you be made of?

You should prioritize not losing yourself. This lid in your hand is merely a string of thoughts keeping you connected to a larger picture of yourself. The bloody drink — whatever it is, it is you. Do not consume your own substance all at once. It won’t do much good for your future ability to communicate. If you suddenly find your self-container empty, you may soon have to rely on imagination. Imagination is subject to lack: lack of freedom, sufficiency, and reality. It is precisely when we have nothing to say that we seek refuge in imagination. So keep it detached, but keep it attached. It’s about the stickiness of repetition, about the experience of four syllables: “Milk / or / su / gar”. It’s an emotionally reassuring square built from words. Predictable, as in pre-dictated?

Sticky ideas suck.