The corner of Maple Avenue is empty now
cold, stripped of its warm neon glow.
An abandoned building,
tables collecting dust,
where laughter once spilled onto the sidewalk.

I remember walking past the packed windows
on my way to the AMC,
pausing just long enough to look inside —
people leaning in close over half-eaten plates.

Now the space feels hollow, out of place.
Only my reflection lingering in the window’s face.

No more sliding into a booth,
vinyl cracked and familiar,
legs sticking slightly to the seat —
catching up,
settling in,
like we had nowhere else to be.

No more waiting for a table.
Party of five.
No host hollering our name over the hum of the conversation.

The Triple Dipper fades.
I loved it —
even as the prices crept higher.

Chicken crispers.
Arnold Palmers.
Sizzling fajitas slicing through the noisy room.

“Happy, happy birthday,”
sung too loudly,
too proudly,
by the Chili’s crew —
even when it wasn’t really anyone’s birthday.
We’d smile, play along,
just for the free dessert
or an extra basket of chips and salsa.

It was a place to gather.
A late-night refuge.
Somewhere to sit and stay a while,
after the movie
or before heading back into the cold.

Now it’s gone —
carried off by the wind,
another casualty of gentrification and corporate greed.
Another late-night spot erased in Evanston,
this godforsaken “college town.”

All the memories laid to rest,
along with my love for the Triple Dipper.

I miss you, Evanston Chili’s.