The waitress looked tired and sad because she was. It had been a long, hot morning that was working its way into a longer and hotter afternoon. The diner's big metal fans blew the heat and smell of fry grease around the dining room without cooling anything. A single TV played cable news in the corner and it was quietly reporting about death somewhere in the world.
There were still four customers from the morning. Gus and Bob and Pat would stay right on through lunch, sitting at the counter, reading their papers or watching the news, occasionally talking to one another. The waitress refilled their coffees: regular, regular with cream, and decaf. A tough-looking trucker lady had come in at 10:30, parking her rig along the side, and ordered a late breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Extra sugar.
The waitress wore baggy khaki pants and a tank top under a thin, blue, button-up shirt. A newly smeared apron was tied around her waist. She wiped the side of her brow with the rolled-up sleeve on her upper arm as she cleaned the last table. The bell on the screen door jingled, but she didn't look up until she heard the three regulars' conversation stop and she didn't hear the sound of the newcomers taking a seat.
There were three men. Men looking for trouble. Men who had found it.
No comments:
Post a Comment