Grandma Moses at the Diner (flash fiction)
“It’s still nice, though,” Kate says. “So much to see. Like a Grandma Moses painting. Every time you look at it, you see something new.”
She would have to go familial. Grandma means children, grandchildren. Bill imagines them running around the booths of chattering eaters. Outside, on the painting’s street, is a flurry of activity: townsfolk, dogs, horses doing a thousand various things. Somehow, it’s now a small town out there, and everyone knows everyone, each day a predictable routine.
He frowns. “It’s just so cluttered.”