The Last Antacid

Harlan's thoughts trod the worn path of self-hate and hopelessness without him noticing.  It was a warm burn behind the eyes and a tightness in this stomach that never went away, no matter what over the counter medicine he tried.  He swallowed the chalkiness of antacid and his waist bent, and his arm performed the motion of picking up the wrapper he dropped next to the trashcan.  If he knew it would be his last antacid, Harlan might have tried to let it linger, despite the unpleasant taste.

157

Dust clung to his clothes and in the lines on his face.  The air conditioning in the diner had been running full blast to combat the dry heat outside, but the stranger didn't seem to sweat.  As was usual, the diner's regulars turned to stare, not hiding their evaluation of the new man.  Plus for nodding, minus for heading to the restroom before sitting.  To Vera's mind, however, that was two plusses.  When the man returned, he looked fifteen years younger and five pounds lighter with his face and hands washed.  Vera poured him coffee, and he nodded his thanks, his eyes looking straight into hers.  It was Vera who had to pull away, and she felt an odd rush.  Normally, she might feel uncomfortable with that sort of attention, but not with this man.  Vera didn't know if that was a good, or a bad thing.