This drabble makes more sense if you read Ricchan's Depression-era AU, "Cross the Heartland."
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Aerith smiled as the mismatched threesome left with the mechanic, one corner of her lips moving gracefully upward to meet her cheek and form a prominent yet sad dimple there. Her hand, once in steady motion, halted on the moist surface of the counter. A worn rag crumpled beneath it. The simple, pleasant-speaking man had touched on a rather sensitive subject early on in their conversation; she knew she shouldn't dwell upon it, and it really was unlike her to dwell upon things –
"Don' worry your heart," he'd expressed to her, months ago. A man of so few words, and he always managed to find the right ones for her. "I'll make my year's bonus, an' I'll be back for you."
The girl had simply nodded and grinned, her tears held back as usual by a dam of peaceable stoicism. "I'll be waitin'."
The hostess' gaze fell upon a vase of withered flowers, dried from the arid mid-western air. She shook her head and dumped them in the rubbish bin. She'd have to find new ones to pick, though the green things were becoming more and more scarce. Her own once-flourishing garden was succumbing to the early stages of drought.
"It's different now," she'd written to her love. "I hope you recognise the diner. I hope you recognise me."
It took him two months to write back. "Nothing ever truly changes."
She plucked a sprig of parsley from the nearest plate and dropped it into the vase. "Honey," she murmured softly, "you won't even know you been gone."