They closed the Brandywine Diner. No more four-in-the-morning milk and pancakes, no more careless reubens to break up a workless afternoon. No more fries with cheese and gravy, no more hoping the coffee comes in its worn white sneakers. No more old acquaintance stopping you on the way to the john, no napkins, ketchup, ashtrays, pepper, no more sticky red-brown leather or chicken souvlaki or muffins. Elena Sikamiatios won’t ring you up up front, you won’t push your arms through your coat, your self out into the slush because you weren’t here, you didn’t spend every final dime beneath heaven and cushion on home fries, an omelette and tea with lemon wedged in a corner booth with the three other people on earth who would live forever.