2003 My hands were still thawing from the short walk from car to restaurant. It was February. It was New Hampshire. It was, bluntly put, cold. My friend, Erica, and I resumed our seats at our usual table by a large show window towards the front of Young's Family Restaurant, "A Tradition Since 1919". It was Tuesday. We were high school students with spending money in our pockets and gas in our cars. Young’s was holding their weekly Two-For-Tuesday breakfast deal, and Erica and I were dining before the world spotted us fully awake. Boredom, some may call it. Hunger. But it wasn’t just about going out to eat. It was an unspoken pact that no matter what, we’d be there for each other. No one skimps on Tuesdays. The waitress stepped up to our table and smiled. I didn’t know her, but I knew who she was. That’s what makes Durham so charming. I hadn’t a clue what this woman called herself, or where she lived, but I knew of a light that glimmered behind her mechanical attitude, something that her aged face couldn’t quite describe as she laid the ice-cold silverware on our table. This was the day we were going to see that light shine. Erica’s gray eyes twinkled at me as the waitress asked what we’d like to order. The woman returned minutes later with our meal and smiled as she lowered it down to us- animals that licked our chops in sheer anticipation. "Doesn’t that look good," she marveled, thoroughly entertained. The other customers, older couples and young families alike, stared in confusion as they quietly consumed their eggs and bacon. It was eight o’clock in the morning and I watched the snow fall outside. A banana split on our table lay in the reflection of Erica’s eyes- the world on heaps of chocolate ice cream. The waitress had spoken with the cooks in the back room and they warmed up hot fudge "just for us". That’s right. It was the day when Erica and I were challenging the world. Who said we couldn’t have banana splits for breakfast? Who said we couldn’t make life fun? Who said we couldn’t really live? It looked good. It tasted good. But it wasn’t the ice cream that hit the spot. It was the principle of the ice cream. We realized that the world was an unending parade of possibilities. No one ever told us that we had to be breakfast clones and eat toast and jam like everyone else (though Young’s did, consequently, make that rule shortly after our visit). It was the day we learned that the only way to live is extraordinarily; that just for once, we had permission to forget the media’s ploys to be thin, the war propaganda, the family emergencies. For one morning we could ignore our stresses, our pains, our weaknesses, and be there for each other as two friends who would never lose touch despite the inevitable changes in our paths ahead. No one skimps on Tuesdays, anyway.