The Little Miracles part of The Brown-Eyed Medusa, an old unfinished story of minesown.

     “They’re all Little Miracles” said Clyde Devlin, staring at the waitress’s ass as she worked the plates on one of the tables across the room—the elastic looked uncertain, and this bemused Clyde.  “Each one, markedly dignified, with a right to exist and choose freedom. What was it Doctor Manhattan said?”
    “God bless these Southern States?” said Effie, in a fog of induction, a kind of stew of words with the meat of the thing strangely absent; one could go hopelessly mad in conversation with Clyde Devlin.
    “Thermodynamic Miracles” said Clyde, turning back, a kind of resumption in his face and clarity in his eyes.  Effie shuddered, but looked at him, not quite at all able to match his sudden intensity.  “In all the universe, we put to questioning probability, but we are each, a billion-and-one shot, each so unlikely as to be perceived by each other, that we are, each and every one, miraculous.”
    “Ketchup for your hashbrowns?” said the thinner waitress, taller, meandering over and holding the bottle awkwardly, ready to set it down on the table.
    “For my eggs” said Clyde.  The waitress winced.
    “Oh shit, not this again” said Effie.  She was an old hand at these gatherings with Clyde at the little diner, and she had seen this, suffered through it before, but that did not mean she would sit today, by any means.  The first time was novelty enough to last a lifetime of lost musings, and today was not specifically a day for those lost musings, so she shunned it as per her want.
    The bottle made a click against the plasticized covering of the table and the waitress ambled away again, kind of a walking broomstick.  Effie marked that Clyde gave her no amount of scrutiny, and one could argue, matching ketchup with eggs may have even been an attempt to scare the lady away from his strange habitations.
    It was the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, away from the eyes of Clyde and Effie, as if the stick waitress had a bad foot, her torso pulsed this way and that as she walked, as if one hip were giving way when she put weight on it, a kind of swing left, swing right, swing left, and what would have been easy entertainment for Clyde Devlin, went hopelessly ignored, as if maybe there were no sore feet or aching knees, worn hips, allowed in the daydreams of the man Devlin, only a kind of uncertain perfection, as of underwear elastic being made visible outside a suit of clothes, seen by any that wanted to see.
    “You get a lot of your philosophy from comic books” said Effie, putting down her fork, and it kind of slid on the glass plate.

-From an unrealized novel called "The Brown-Eyed Medusa".