The diner dream where the coffee never runs out

I'm in the same booth again, by the window that shows a street I don't recognize. The coffee refills itself before I ask, and the waitress knows my name but won't tell me which one is mine. Across the table there's a manila folder I keep meaning to open, but I just sit there, watching the steam curl, waiting for something that never arrives. I woke up still thirsty.