One Washington Diner (standard:romance, 10205 words)
Author: J. Nicklaus	Added: Feb 18 2008	Views/Reads: 3365/2216	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Sometimes good food and good company mean more than you think.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"I, umm," I stammered. She raised one eyebrow. "Sure, why not." The
plain white ceramic mug in front of me landed with a soft thud as she 
turned it over and set it down, then carefully poured. "Sugar or 
cream?" she asked, topping off the mug. Folding my arms in front of me 
I nodded. "Help yourself, they're right in front of you." She grinned 
mischievously. 

"I'm going to play a hunch here," I began, reaching for the condiments. 

"What's that?" 

"I'm guessing you only drink the leaded stuff, judging by your keen
focus and energy level." Sugar cascaded into the steaming blackness. 
"Here and there. Makes the long night bearable." 

The cream didn't swirl so much as float like some newly manifested
apparition as I drizzled it into the mug. A pyromaniac is fascinated by 
the dance and destructive fury of a flame; a prospector's eyes twinkle 
at the discovery of the smallest flake or nugget of gold shining at the 
bottom of a pan. I sat, cosmically mesmerized, by the suspended cloud 
of whiteness slowly ballooning inside my mug of coffee—until her voice 
snapped me back to harsh reality. 

"Anything interesting, you know, like a famous face, or did you see the
future?" 

"No, sadly," I began, picking up the spoon to stir. "But it's entirely
possible that through some altered state of meta-physical being I've 
become privy to the meaning of the universe." The spoon blended the 
fading cloud of cream into the coffee, turning it a velvety caramel 
brown. "Ooh, goodie! I would love to know what it is!" she squealed. 
Whether being playful or not, she seemed genuinely excited, or perhaps 
she was simply patronizing me—either of which were welcome at this 
point. I raised the mug halfway, then stopped. 

""It's quite simple, really," I teased before taking a cursory sip. She
thrust her hands into the pockets on either side of her blouse and 
stared at me. 

"Oh, you want the answer." 

"You've poised me at the brink of a soul-bending epiphany, so . . .
yeah. Hit me." Setting the mug down, I glanced around the diner in mock 
secrecy, then leaned in towards her and whispered my reply. "Forty 
two." The sound of air rushing from a balloon filled my head as I 
watched her expression change. 

"I think my cerebrum just imploded," she mocked. "All that from a cup of
coffee? Hmm, perhaps I should switch to decaf." 

"It's a very zen-like thing, actually," I explained. "A profound sense
of existentialism; call it 'coffee spirituality' if you like." I began 
raising the cup for a second sip. 

Clasping her hands together, she leaned upon her forearms on the
counter, glimmering eyes of honey amber peering back at me. "And you 
divined that from staring at your coffee, all by yourself?". The lip of 
the mug never made it to my lips. 

"Well, number one, if you're going to be condescending I won't order any
food," I grinned. "Second, I had a little help from Douglas Adams." She 
never moved, never blinked, just stared as I sipped nonchalantly at my 
coffee. "Questions?" I asked. 

"Who am I to question such mystic philosophy? So, what can I get you?" 

"Whatcha got?" I stopped her as she reached for a menu. "Nah, just tell
me. I'm enjoying the company." Placing her hands behind her, she leaned 
against the back counter and crossed her ankles. "Well, what we have is 
whatever I can cook." 

"You're a one-woman show, huh?" 

"I'm a hit, as you can tell." She spread her arms wide to as if to
fashionably display the empty diner, like some game-show model 
gesturing at the prize car as the curtain lifts. 

I patted my pockets pretending to check for something. "Dang, I seem to
have forgotten my pen, otherwise I'd sure love your autograph." 

"This is your lucky morning, isn't it? Just so happens I al-ways have
one handy." Reaching into the front pocket of her apron she produced a 
thick pen, clicking the top button several times for cartoonish 
emphasis. I cupped my hands over my mouth and feigned rapturous joy. 
"Oh my gosh, I'm your biggest fan!" 

"I must admit, it's always nice to meet a fan." I could tell she was
clearly enjoying herself. She reached into the opposite apron pocket, 
bringing out a receipt book. "Now, fan boy, what would you like me to 
write on this here check?" 

Not-so-subtle reminders of the diners offerings were plastered at every
conceivable place a pair of eyes could look: upon the walls, table 
tents, refrigerated display cases, even as advertisements on the floor; 
pancakes, fried chicken, chili fries, milk shakes, all vying for one's 
stomach and wallet. The eat-what-you-see school of persuasion was 
hardly lacking reserve judging from the decor. 

I swiveled on the stool while contemplating the cornucopia of unhealthy
choices. "Do you know the concept of 'mindless eating'?" I asked. She 
crossed her arms and considered the question. "No, can't say I do." 

"Interesting, actually. It says that even the most seemingly
inconsequential things can influence what or how much we eat, like the 
size of a plate or the lighting in the room. The science of it is 
predicated upon a whole slew of studies done in just about any place 
you would find food: restaurants, movie theaters, malls, homes, and 
yes, even diners." Her body language screamed indifference, but I could 
tell she was pay-in attention. 

"They've termed it "mindless eating" because through the studies they've
found that people, on average, make some kind of decision about food 
somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 times a day—as it turns out, 
that's about twenty times more often than they were aware of doing it." 
I paused to take another sip of coffee and gauge her interest, which 
wasn't easy since she hadn't moved since I'd begun my little lecture. 
"If you have things to do . . ." 

"There's a party of six over in station two I need to get to," she
deadpanned, "but they can wait. Please continue." I couldn't help but 
look to my right. I hadn't heard anyone come in, but my natural 
curiosity wouldn't be denied. The diner was still empty—except of 
course, for me. 

Then it struck me how eerily quiet it was. 

"I couldn't help but notice how little noise there is in here." She
shrugged. "Never occurred to me, actually." I closed my eyes for a 
moment, concentrating. "Do you . . . do you hear that beeping sound? It 
seems to be coming from outside." I stated, gesturing to the left. 
After a few seconds of peaceful alertness, she shook her head. "Nope, I 
don't hear a thing." 

"Been hearing it a lot lately. I mean, like, everywhere." I looked down
at my coffee, then back up at her, trying to re-member what I'd been 
ranting about before. "Where was I?" 

She waved her pen in small circles. "People thinking about eating . . .
" 

"Oh, right. So anyhow, in one study they found that people sitting near
a clear bowl filled with Hershey's Kisses ate something like close to 
seventy percent more than those seated near a white dish filled with 
the same candy." 

She seemed unimpressed. "Okay, and that has what to do with me or the
diner?" 

"Suffice to say, no one leaves here hungry, I'd bet." 

"Well they're not coming in for the entertainment, if that's what you're
gettin' at." she mocked. I cleared my throat be-fore speaking. 
"Clearly, that's their loss." 

Waving both hands briskly in front of her face she put on her best
Southern drawl. "I do declare . . . aren't you quite the charmer!" I 
shrugged before taking another gulp, "Eh, it's a gift." She smiled, 
perhaps a bit too coyly. 

"Well, Santa, are you going to order or just keep tryin' to sweep me off
my feet?" 

"You got waffles?" 

"How many?" 

"Two would be good." 

"Bacon, hash browns . . . anything else with that?" 

"No, but thanks," I replied. Something about her seemed very familiar,
as if I'd known her from somewhere. As we grow some of our fondest 
memories are those kept from childhood, of friends you'd run around 
with barefoot or go on trips with their families during summer break. 
Still others come from high school, laughs and rumors shared and 
started in the bleachers during a pep assembly—neither of which did I 
have much recall of. From college on, though, that was different. 
Perhaps because the onset of adulthood blurs into the somewhat 
structured chaos of college life. I knew her, just couldn't remember 
from where. I watched as she dutifully strode around the corner and 
into the kitchen. "They should be ready in about five," she yelled. 

"That's fine," I countered. I listened to the sounds of utensils banging
against aluminum bowls and the eventual sizzle as batter hit the hot 
waffle iron. She came back around the corner briefly to offer to warm 
up my coffee, then disappeared into the kitchen again. The lack of 
noise had grown beyond the point of conspicuous, and coupled with the 
in-ability to feasibly remember how I'd arrived here, I felt the 
gnawing onset of inconvenient disquiet. Something was amiss, something 
intangible yet important. I swiveled upon the stool to look outside, 
but the windows looked out into nothing—not so much pitch black as   
just the absence of light drifting aimlessly. 

And yet as indistinct as some of the surroundings were, I could still
hear—if I could call it that—the soft electronic beep that seemed to 
follow me. 

"Order UP!" she called from the kitchen as she slid the plate upon the
chrome shelf in the delivery window. I jumped slightly, jarred from my 
self-imposed preoccupation. She seemed to glide around the corner as 
she picked up the plate and set it before me. "Dos barquillos, verdad?" 


"If barquillos means waffles, then, si," I replied, staring blankly at
the plate. 

"Well?" 

"I'm sorry—they look delicious, really." 

She turned around and reached down to pull some butter out of a cooler.
"You can look as long as you like, but they ain't gettin' any warmer." 
Three pats of butter materialized in front of me, followed by a small 
container of syrup. She looked directly in my eyes, her gaze 
perforating my addled thoughts. "Something wrong?" 

"What?" I said dryly, "uh . . . no, no it's fine really." 

"Uh huh." Sharp, this one. Smoke and mirrors wouldn't suffice with her,
so I had to settle for the one thing many men want but fear the 
most—the truth. 

"I remembered a quote from Mark Twain; just made me think, that's all."
She walked around the counter and sat next to me before speaking. "And 
it was—?" I gave her a momentary glance, trying to discern if it was 
worth the utterance; the reluctant conclusion was that I had little, if 
nothing, to lose by sharing my thoughts with her. 

"Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is . .
." 

". . . because we are not the person involved." Her look was one of
wanting to smile blended with concentration. "You look—surprised." 

"Well, yeah, I am," I blurted. "I mean, I hadn't expected you would know
the quote." Somewhere, neurons in my brain were firing faster than I 
could measurably conceive, bringing to bear one inescapable thought: 
"Hey, idiot . . . had you filled your mouth with waffle that little 
verbal misdeed wouldn't have happened." Apparently it decided to take 
matters into its own hands and began to move my own, cutting off a 
chunk of waffle and impaling it upon my fork. 

She only smiled, a knowing, sweetly insidious smile. "It might surprise
you, what I know." My jaws moved as they chewed, preventing some other 
malfeasance of thought from diving off my tongue, while that little 
voice crossed its arms and chided me, "You got lucky, buddy." I just 
nodded and chewed. Wasn't until the third bite I sensed there was no 
taste—it wasn't dry, stiff, bland, doughy—it just . . . wasn't. 

"Do you fear death?" she asked matter-of-factly. 

I finished chewing and swallowed. "No, not really." I paused,
considering my words. "It comes to each of us one way or another," I 
added pragmatically. Lifting another fork full, I stopped midway, then 
quietly dropped my fork to the plate again. "Why would you ask that?" 

"Twain's words, on the surface, have a subtle comic truth to them, I
think you'd agree." I nodded silently. "But its deeper premise, it's 
emotional power—that's what made you think, made you pensive." 

This little excursion I'd taken to try and relieve my sleeplessness had
just added a few new eggs to my deprivation basket. "You understand, 
don't you, that your ability to perceive my state-of-being is most 
unsettling." Suddenly she sat up straight, completely removed from her 
prior relaxed de-mea nor. 

"I honestly didn't mean to scare you or make you nervous . . ." I waved
her off. "Please—really, I suppose I'm a little disappointed to find 
out I'm that easily read." I took another quick sip of coffee. "I, uh, 
can't seem to avoid this feeling that I know you from somewhere. You 
seem very familiar, but that—you know—knowledge feeling, that sensation 
you get when you suddenly recall something—it's like, way out of my 
grasp at the moment—and it's buggin' me." Her posture changed slightly, 
certainly less rigid. 

"Well, who do I remind you of?" 

"That's part of the problem; I know you remind me of somebody, but I
can't seem to get the gears to mesh. I can't quite clear this . . . 
this . . . mental fog that seems to keep me from reaching out and 
connecting with that memory." 

"That has to be incredibly frustrating." 

"Maddening is the word you're looking for. Kind of like when you feel a
sneeze coming, but it won't come. You know it's there but you can't get 
to it." 

"I hate that!" she spouted. "That's so—irritating." 

"So now you see my dilemma." 

"See?" she exclaimed, "I so get it now!" She leaned over onto the
counter, left forearm outstretched, regarding me with a calmness I 
found hypnotic—she knew something I didn't. Her mute intimation of 
enlightenment should have felt like fingernails scraped against a 
chalkboard, but instead only served to amplify my intrigue. Her every 
move, nuanced or exaggerated, seemed not so much planned as purposeful, 
like she was supposed to do it. I began to convince myself it was she 
that was there for me, whether by design of prudence or some 
inexplicable twist of fates. All manner of sensibility pointed less to 
random chance than to some calculated arrangement of whispered prayers 
answered. No, she wouldn't reveal anything to me that she knew I wasn't 
ready for. I wasn't even sure how I knew . . . but I knew. 

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, then set it atop the re-mains of
tasteless waffles. My hunger was different now. Gently pushing the 
plate aside I carefully scrutinized her uniform. 

"I don't see a name tag, and you never told me your name . . . you know,
most good waitresses do that. "Hi, I'm Michelle and I'll be your 
waitress—", something noticeably lacking in your presentation I might 
add." 

"Well, Michelle, nice to meet you. My name is Brenda—Brenda Carty." 

I suddenly felt woozy, my dizziness blurred and blended all streams of
thought into one muddy stream of confusion. I knew that name—it meant 
something. Something profound. Like a fish nibbling at a baited hook, I 
could feel her name tugging repeatedly at me, the sound of it careening 
in my head. 

Still the heady sensation of cognizance eluded me; I couldn't connect
the dots. 

"Whoa," she said, alarmed, "you okay?" 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Yeah," I said, exhaling.
"Yeah, I guess so." 

"You got pale all of a sudden. I don't know about you, but in my
experience that's not usually associated with pleasant feelings." 

Steadying myself against the counter, I hung my head in an effort to
clear my thoughts and focus on remaining conscious. "Just, uh—your . . 
. your name," I mumbled at the white Formica countertop. "Seems pretty 
silly to have that strong a reaction to a name, but it feels like my 
mind and my emotions are going out of their way to avoid one another." 

"It'll come to ya, hun. Give it time." Her voice was sooth-in, strangely
reassuring. I looked at her and nodded gently. I knew it would, but it 
seemed to be taking its sweet time get-ting there. 

"Now it seems I'm at something of a disadvantage, sir. You know my name,
but I don't know yours." I looked up and caught her beautiful brown 
eyes. "Umm . . ." 

"Take your time. Morning rush shouldn't start for a couple hours yet,"
she needled. 

"Daron—if I remember correctly, it's Daron." Her eyes, her hair, the way
her smile stole a moment and made it a memory—I desperately wanted to 
remember. I ached for it. 

"Seems to me, Daron, like you have a lot on your plate. No pun
intended." 

"What really bothers me is I can recall childhood rhymes, but I can't
piece together things which I know mean some-thing." I stated flatly, 
pounding my fist lightly upon the counter. The fork barely clattered 
against the plate as I did so. 

"Maybe it's because you're so tired. Maybe once you get some rest things
will start making sense again." she offered. 

I pressed my palm against my forehead then let it travel through my
hair, fingers pulling lightly as they went. "Maybe. I hope it's that 
simple." 

Brenda rose and stood behind the stool. "Then let's try to keep it
simple then," she said, stepping to the spot where she'd greeted me 
earlier. "You remember coming in the door and seeing me, right?" I spun 
slowly on my stool and turned to face her. 

"Sure," I remarked calmly. 

"Do you remember what you felt when you first walked in?" 

My eyes fell, almost automatically, to the floor, myopically expecting
to detect the answer glowing with a resplendent shimmer upon the 
crisscrossed tile surface, then they lurched towards the obsidian 
windows, and finally came to a thoughtful pause upon her now familiar 
countenance. I squinted in the way one does when trying to force a 
thought to the front of the brain. 

"All I can remember . . . is, uh . . . feeling tired, I guess. Like when
you feel so deeply tired you can't begin to sleep, you know?" 

Brenda considered my answer before forging onward. "Okay, I can
understand that. When you saw me, I mean when you first came in the 
door—did anything strike you? I mean, you almost passed out on me a few 
minutes ago when I told you my name, so I thought perhaps . . ." 

I shook my head definitively. "No, no I'm pretty sure I would have
remembered reacting like that when I first saw you." 

She crossed one arm over her chest and rested the other elbow upon it,
looking very much like an upright version of Rodin's Thinker. After a 
few more moments of disquieting silence her eyes widened in some sort 
of partial epiphany. "What about your trip over here. You must remember 
that." 

"Strangely, I really don't. I'd say it was a blur, if it was, but I
can't even say that." With every passing sentence things felt 
increasingly surreal. 

Brenda walked forward and stopped directly in front of me, her line of
vision boring down and into mine. Her eyes shifted quickly back and 
forth as they searched for something I couldn't begin to fathom. "Do 
you remember anything from the last day or so?" I clasped my hands 
together and held them in my lap, then let my eyes wander of their own 
free will, hoping they'd hit upon something that would flip at least 
one switch, draw that one elusive line and connect just a couple dots 
for me. Some cosmic force had decided to hide the truth behind an 
obscure locked door and conveniently misplace the key. And yet, I could 
make out bits and pieces if I carefully spied through the keyhole. 

Pensively I inhaled and closed my eyes. "Vaguely. Some-thing about an
argument." A slow, festering ache began to bleed through the emotional 
haze. "Yes . . . yes, that much I feel is certain," I murmured as I 
opened and lifted my eyes to hers again. 

The ache: It was in her eyes too. 

"What was it about?" she asked softly. 

I struggled with the recall, but her face, especially her eyes, provided
an enigmatic spark that danced along some frayed neural pathway. A 
murky, distant image taunted me from deep within, the undefined blur of 
shapes gesturing in the heat of disagreement, muffled words floated 
about, bubbling and sticky like melted marshmallows. 

"A chair?" I heard myself question aloud. Brenda's face contorted
slightly, perhaps in syncopation with her puzzle-met. I gently shook my 
head, trying to jar a little more definition loose. A raised voice 
drifted by, indistinct in form but undeniably feminine. Then a 
masculine laugh followed by heavy silence. 

"Umm, something about," I gestured, hands flapping in mid-air, "a gift
for a relative." 

"The chair, perhaps?" 

I nodded. It seemed to fit. "I think so." 

"So, you and someone else had an argument about a chair that was given
as a gift . . ." 

"There's more to it; little bits and pieces are coming to me—shards and
quick, blurred glimpses. It's kind of like—like driving in the 
mountains at night. I mean, you can barely see the road or scenery as 
you drive through, but you can make out something as your headlight 
beams pass over them. It's quick, but it's something." There was no 
attempt at per-suasion in my explanation, only the excitement of 
fleeting remembrance. 

Brenda sat back down as she spoke. "Okay, okay, that's a good start. So
what are you feeling or seeing?" 

I closed my eyes as if I had to emphasize the process, to make it
somehow more believable. "A . . . a . . . woman. I can't see or make 
out her face or any of her features, but the voice that keeps playing, 
it's definitely a woman's voice." I hung my head in concentration. "Her 
voice seems frustrated, " I said, then paused, " no, I think it's 
perhaps more—" 

"More what?" Brenda whispered. 

Holding my head up, I opened my eyes and looked at her. "More—angry." 

"About a chair?" she asked, seemingly incredulous. I sat motionless,
hoping whatever fragile waves of grace were washing over me would 
continue and not suddenly ebb. My inward vigilance paid off. 

My expression must have been quite confusing, I wanted to grin and frown
simultaneously. "I, uh—" 

She sat quiet this time, apparently content to wait for my entire reply.


My brain felt like a merry-go-round—one memory would come, however
faintly, but then would shrink as it faded around a corner, and another 
would come around the other side, only to shrink as the other had; at 
least they were com-in, though. "I think I said something off-handed." 
Recall seemed to flicker and jump, like an old movie that won't 
synchronize with a projector. "Ok—yes-" I nodded, "it was meant as a 
joke." 

"Do tell," she quipped. 

"Mother-in-law," I murmured, the words barely leaving my lips. 

Brenda smiled again, that I know something about you kind of smile. "You
made a crack about someone's mother-in-law?" 

"I should have thought twice before saying it, but it seemed so natural
to say it, and next thing I knew it was out there." 

"Must have been a doozy," she said with a snicker. 

Part of the puzzle came together all of a sudden. "She—this female
person I can't quite put my finger on yet—was very upset because I said 
something about wanting to get a different chair for her mother, but I 
knew she wouldn't plug it in." Brenda erupted with laughter, covering 
her mouth as she did. 

"I'm sorry, I know it's probably inappropriate to laugh at that," she
replied. I was half ashamed, half pleased at her response. 

"See, that's the result I was going for." 

Brenda tried to stifle another laugh, "Plug it in. That's pretty funny."


"I thought so." 

"But you say this other woman didn't see it that way/" The moment of
warmth quickly passed, replaced with a palpable greyness. 

"No. Not in the least," I sighed. 

Now the events came steady, almost streaming and pulsing. "We argued," I
uttered, my eyes closed. "I know I meant it to be funny at that moment, 
but I suppose there was some deep rationale for my saying it." A wave 
of revulsion washed over me, a grudging antipathy in the wake of 
remembering the dispute. "Her mother," I began, then stopped as I 
reflected upon the words <italics> her mother.  I strained to bridge 
the mental chasm, to make sense of it—because I knew it was supposed to 
make sense. It seemed my mind, or perhaps my subconscious, was 
willingly preventing any connection from being made. 

Again, Brenda sat quietly while I gathered my thoughts. 

"All I can make out now are raised voices," I said as I rubbed my
temples. "She's clearly upset about the chair thing—we go back and 
forth for a while. I . . ." I paused again, letting my voice trail off 
and my thoughts catch up, "I tried to apologize but she kept hammering 
on me about how I didn't care and I didn't understand, and I was being 
unfair. I got really frustrated and bitter. I remember grabbing my keys 
and practically running towards the door." 

I looked up at Brenda, my eyes locking onto hers. Suddenly I could
remember words again." "Where're you going?" she barked at me. 
"Apparently it would be unfair of me to assume that I care about where 
I'm going," I yelled back at her, "and since you don't understand that 
I've tried to honestly apologize then why should I begin to care about 
laying out the next half hour of my life for you!" I could feel my 
heart pounding in my chest as the argument rushed back at me, heated 
words jettisoned at one another, some glancing blows while others 
cratered upon impact. Brenda said nothing, only staring back in rapt 
attention. 

"I turned around and marched into the garage, slamming the door behind
me. I had the engine turned over before I saw the door open and she 
stepped through. I didn't stick around to see what she had to say—I 
figured she was just going to yell more anyways. I glared at her 
through the dirty windshield, then threw the car in reverse and 
squealed out of the driveway." 

"Did you two argue often?" Brenda asked. 

"No. Rarely, actually." 

She looked up over my shoulder, then stood suddenly. I didn't turn
around to look. "Mornin'," I heard her say. 

"Good morning," came the warm male voice. "Mind if I join you at the
counter?" 

"Suits me," she replied. I felt her hand gently lay upon my shoulder.
"Daron, do you mind?" I turned around and mo-toned to the stool next to 
me. "Not at all, please sit down." 

There was something uncommonly welcoming about him. I didn't know this
elderly man in a navy blue hooded sweat-shirt, jeans and sandals—but 
for whatever reason I immediately felt comforted by his simple 
presence. 

"Thank you kindly," he said, sitting down cautiously. "Hope I'm not
interrupting anything." 

"Not at all," I assured him. "Miss Carty and I were just
discussing—well, I was discussing—something that had hap-pen ed 
recently." 

"World events, politics?" he asked, apparently intrigued. I looked
across the counter at Brenda; she'd wandered back behind the counter 
again. "No," I said, "something that had happened to me." Brenda 
wordlessly held up the coffee pot and the stranger waved her off with a 
smile. 

"Must have been quite something," he remarked. His smile struck me the
same as Brenda's, like he knew something about me that I didn't. It 
seemed to radiate through his white beard. 

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"When I came in you didn't turn around to look. You were very absorbed
in some kind of thought. You didn't turn around until Brenda put her 
hand on your shoulder." I looked at him first, then back at her. 

"How . . ." 

He motioned towards Brenda. "I come in here all the time." She gave me a
confirming smile. 

"Well, no wonder Brenda is so good at reading me then." The gentleman
stranger just chuckled. "It can be a symbiotic relationship, to be 
sure," he said. "We help each other out now and again." 

"Whatever inexplicable magic or transcendental wisdom you two possess,
I'd be incredibly grateful if you could put my mind at ease, you know?" 
I caught Brenda's gaze as her eyes darted in the strangers direction. 
Seemed as if she was waiting for him to make the next move. 

"The existence of forgetting has never been proved. We only know that
some things don't come to mind when we want them." His comment had 
every appearance of damming what had been a smoothly flowing 
conversation. I looked again at Brenda in the hopes she would be able 
to clarify it for me. 

"Nietzsche," was all she said. 

"Thanks, that really helps," I groaned. 

"Think about it, Daron," she implored. "It makes perfect sense—or it
should." 

I raised an eyebrow. 

"You're frustrated, to say the least, because you instinctively know you
have the memory stored somewhere, but you can't call it up, right?" 

"You got it right—"to say the least"." 

"So you really haven't forgotten. Those memories are there, kind of like
. . . like . . . a kite that's stuck tethered to a tree limb, but the 
limb is just barely out of reach. You just need to find a way to reach 
it and pull the kite back down." She grinned proudly at her nostalgic 
metaphor. While I clearly understood the parallel it seemed no less 
odd, but then my entire morning thus far had been anything but normal. 

I turned toward our latest companion and stated flatly, "Kites." He just
smiled. No point in belaboring it; in all fact she was right. The 
stranger, I'd noticed, seemed keen on ob-serving me, his gaze only 
occasionally straying from me to Brenda. He hadn't so much as reached 
for a napkin or asked for a glass of water—he just sat there, 
apparently very content to simply watch. I thought it only fair that if 
he were studying me I that I know the man's name. 

"Would appear you know both our names, yet I don't know yours?" I asked
pointedly, 

He extended his hand. "I'm Eloy," he said, shaking my hand firmly. I
felt as if I was shaking my grandfather's hand after not having seen 
one another for years. Grandpa had al-ways smiled and laughed when I 
saw him. "A pleasure to meet you, Eloy," I said. 

"The pleasure, I assure you, is mine,' he replied. "Would you mind
terribly if I made an observation?" Brenda looked at me and shrugged. 
"No sir, not at all," I said, "by all means do." 

Eloy breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled. "It's self-evident that you
are very much drawn—I'd even say connected to—Brenda." Many things in 
life you can see coming, even when unannounced: your birthday, filing 
taxes, a waitress with your order, or even the hug from an aunt with a 
hairy upper lip every Thanksgiving. 

This was not one of those things. 

"I, uh . . ." I stammered, looking over at her for some outward sign of
approval or otherwise. She said nothing but her face had question marks 
written all over it. "We, uh, had discussed something earlier, umm, 
along those lines." 

"Come now, Daron. I didn't say you were passionately in love with her." 

"Well, no, you didn't," I managed. 

"Then?" he countered. 

"She is acutely aware that I feel some emotional connection to her." 

Brenda chimed in, "It's true. The mere mention of my name practically
made him keel over." 

"Keel over is a little dramatic, I think . . ." 

"Oh please!" she admonished playfully. Eloy laughed out loud. "So the
safe answer is yes, correct?" 

I felt like a schoolboy whose secret crush had been revealed. "Yes, I'd
say so." 

Eloy nodded in confirmation. "Okay then. What is it about her that you
feel drawn to?" He seemed to look right through me. I had the 
unmistakable impression he could easily discern even the most 
translucent of white lies, so being evasive wasn't a gambling man's 
best bet. 

"I've only known her for the last half-hour I suppose, but there's some
profoundly inexplicable feeling I have that tells me we have some kind 
of past, that we've known one another for half a lifetime." Again Eloy 
shifted his gaze back and forth between us. 

"And what else? Surely she possesses some—what's the word I'm looking
for?" he asked himself thoughtfully rubbing his chin. 

"Redeeming?" Brenda offered. 

"Perfect!" he shouted. "Yes, surely she has some redeeming qualities?" I
cast my eyes ceiling-ward and melodramatically drawled "I don't know." 

"I haven't charged you for the waffles yet, have I?" she asked
pointedly. 

"Obviously," I spouted, "she's philanthropic to a fault." She seemed
amused with my reply. 

"Or she's fishing for a large tip," Eloy added. I smiled; Brenda
grimaced. "She has certainly earned it, my friend. She's been nothing 
short of delightful thus far: sharp, funny, quick, and . . ." I paused 
to look in her direction, "I freely admit she's a beautiful creature." 

I thought I detected the slightest trace of blush. 

"You are most observant for only have been in her company for less than
an hour," he stated. "In all the times I've come here I've never known 
her to be anything but those things." 

Brenda smirked. "Nice recovery, Eloy." He tipped the brim of an
invisible hat upon his head. 

"The two of you seem quite compatible, not the slightest whiff of
pretense or awkwardness. I'm sure that's part of what you sense, 
Daron." 

"Absolutely," I answered. "It may be painfully obvious, but it's not the
knowns that bother me." 

Eloy leaned in a bit, a twinkle glinted in his eyes. "And what of the
unknowns? Is it not those same intangibles that you feel most connected 
with?" He halted mid-thought and smiled. "This woman you hardly know," 
he continued, gesturing towards Brenda with stately but graceful 
fingers, "stirs something inside you." 

I couldn't help but stare at her as his voice dropped to an emphatic
whisper, his words slipped upon the air with silken fluidity. "Think 
Daron," he urged, "reach back with not your conscious self, rather that 
place where your fondest memories and heart meet. A touch, a kiss, a 
wordless look—think of those when you look at her. She's there, I 
assure you." 

My masculine side wanted to spring to my defense, to lay claim to
disbelief in such vagaries; Truth stepped in the way, and wouldn't 
budge. 

"The soft breathing you hear in the watercolor darkness of the
night—she's there. The warm voice, sweet and smooth as honey—it's hers. 
All you need to do is remember." 

I felt transfixed as I gazed at her. I all but muscled my will to not
physically think, to just allow things to flow, unfettered by the 
largesse of cerebral deductions. Eloy was right—she was there. But I 
could sense only the slightest pull of emotional reminiscence, like the 
twinkling of a star in the night sky. Even though I couldn't see the 
sun that gave light to the stars glimmer, I knew it was there 
nonetheless. 

Yet with delicate but spirited insistence I began to feel an
indescribable warmth which I could only attribute to her—and the more I 
let go, the easier it came, tranquil and soothing. I felt Eloy's hand 
upon my shoulder. "See what I mean, son?" Wordlessly, I nodded. His 
gentle question had not been intended as an intrusion, yet it 
effectively severed the connection with all the grace of cold water on 
hot glass. 

I winced in automatic response to my frustration. "I was so close," I
protested, "and now I still don't know . . ." Eloy smiled, causing the 
corners of his eyes to lift ever so slightly, and raised his hand. He 
spoke not one word, uttered no sound in the least, but reached into his 
left jeans pocket and slowly withdrew a crisp one dollar bill and 
handed it to Brenda with a nod; she thoughtfully inspected first the 
face of it, then the back. She smiled and reached into her apron again, 
producing the pen, then carefully splayed the bill on the counter, face 
up, and with focused consideration in-scribed something upon it. I 
started to reach for it when Eloy once again requested my attention. 

"Daron, look outside the windows and tell me what you see." 

"There's nothing, I mean, literally," I began without turning around. 

"Look again, son," he said, slowly waving his palm towards the portals.
I shot him a questioning glance, then looked at Brenda as if to quietly 
state This guy's boat has sailed. She only nodded her affirmation of 
his request. Overruled, I reluctantly turned around. 

The lingering obsidian nothingness had been displaced by a bleary, milky
blue paleness; in no way as direct or harsh as sunlight, it seemed to 
surround and embrace the diner. 

All I could do was stare. 

The heavy cloak of dark had lifted, yet in its wake a new set of
questions emerged; different, yet indelibly entwined and weaved within 
the rest of the hour's fabric. I turned to face Eloy, certain that he 
and he alone could explain—but he wasn't seated next to me anymore. I 
looked to Brenda, who hadn't moved from her spot since he'd arrived—she 
just grinned and motioned over my shoulder. There he stood, in the same 
spot where I had first encountered her, hands hid-den in his pockets, 
and his smile melting away my apprehensions. He looked over my shoulder 
at Brenda and nodded. 

"Hey," she gently called. I was suddenly gripped by the fear that I may
never hear her voice again. I wanted her to keep talking, but my own 
mouth wouldn't move to form the words—to tell her what I felt. My heart 
sank as my head turned towards her felicitous voice. 

She reached over the counter and tenderly grasped my wrist, then leaned
forward and kissed my cheek in the most delicate but reassuring manner. 
I felt her fingertips place the dollar bill in my hand, then curl my 
own fingers around it. She wrapped both her hands around mine and 
squeezed ever so lightly. "You be careful with that—you're gonna want 
to hang on to it." Her smile immediately carried me back to the moment 
I first saw her as she greeted me. Although I didn't recognize it then, 
I did now: it was filled with warmth and a zest for life. 

I couldn't help but stare directly into her eyes as I started to speak.
"I—uh—think I have to—uh—go now," I stammered pathetically. She nodded, 
and with a sweet smile gently released my hand. Without any forethought 
I automatically turned to Eloy. 

"Whaddya say we blow this pop stand?" he asked extending his hand.
Giving Brenda a quick last look I saw her silently mouth the word Go. I 
grinned as best I could, then turned around and grasped his hand, the 
dollar bill clutched securely in the other. As we approached the door 
he stopped and squared himself to me. 

""You're almost there, Daron," he said. "You just keep walking towards
that beep . . ." 

I'd almost completely forgotten about the beep. "You can hear it too?" I
asked excitedly. 

"Of course, son," he smiled. "Things will start coming back to you now,
I promise." I shook his hand firmly. 

"I'm not at all sure what I'm thanking you for, but I know I need to
thank you." 

"My pleasure. You take care of yourself, alright?" He'd taken on an
almost paternal demeanor. 

"So long as you keep an eye out for her," I bargained, thumbing in
Brenda's direction. 

"Deal," he said. 

Leaning my shoulder into the door, it slid open and I stepped into the
chalky light. Each footstep toward the haunting beep was a confusing 
blend of elation and parting sorrow. 

Each purposeful step forward carried with it an unquestionable sense of
relief. 

? 

Repeated shots of talking heads and scrolling stock market information
played upon the wall mounted television; she'd muted the sound the 
moment the doctor and nurse stepped in to update the charts. They stood 
at the corner of the bed whispering back and forth, occasionally 
glancing at their patient. Some days she felt they treated him more as 
a case, a statistic, than as a human being. Those days were always 
harder for her, and only compounded by her utter feeling of 
helplessness. She wasn't alone—the medical staff felt just as helpless; 
both parties could do little but wait and hope. 

And hope was something she'd become intensely good at. 

For the moment, though, she sat with her left hand in her lap, her right
forearm grazing the cool brushed aluminum bed rail as her fingertips 
tenderly caressed his hand, stopping every so often to gently squeeze 
his wrist. Outwardly tired and eyes heavy with exhaustion, she 
steadfastly maintained her vigil, black sweater ever present around her 
shoulders. 

The doctor approached, removing the stethoscope from around his neck. He
placed the ear pieces in each ear as he bent over to listen to his 
patient's breathing. When finished he placed the stethoscope back 
around his neck then jotted a couple notations on the chart. 

"How are you this morning?" he asked with a smile. 

"Tired." 

"I bet. Anything happen last night—anything different?" 

She wanted so much to have better news, or at least new news. "No. It
was another quiet night," she said dejectedly, "But things will change 
soon. I know it, without a doubt." 

"I've seen many things that I can't medically explain—good and bad" he
said, brushing his tie aside to slide the pen into his shirt pocket, 
"But, I can tell you without reservation that those who have had a 
loved one sitting by their side have always done better—so he already 
has an advantage." 

"I'm not going anywhere," she stated, grinning weakly. 

"Good!" He stepped just outside the door and set the chart in the wall
file. "We'll be back in a couple hours. Buzz the nurses station if you 
need anything." 

"I will." 

The nurse turned and gave her a warm smile. "If you don't mind, I'll
come back in a few minutes and keep you company for a bit. I'm caught 
up for now, unless something else comes in." 

Her eyes lit up. "That would be wonderful! Thank you, I'd certainly
enjoy that." For the first time in over a half a month her face 
appeared lighter, betraying perhaps the slightest hint of giddiness. 
The congenial 'hello's', 'good morning's', and 'how are you's' traded 
with the staff each day were nice, but fleeting and mechanical. Having 
another person to truly interact with—this was a small event in her 
current world. 

"Okay then. I'll see you in a few," she said, then turned and
disappeared around the corner. The low, steady chirp of the heart rate 
monitor and occasional chime from the elevator in the hall provided 
small comfort amidst the heavy silence; yet they seemed far less 
intrusive for the moment. "We're going to have company," she said 
softly, gently rubbing his shoulder. 

Minutes later the nurse returned to find the woman carefully wiping the
man's face with a damp cloth. “You're doing my job, yet I'm getting 
paid for it,” she said with a laugh. 

“Just seems natural, I suppose,” was the reply. “Please, sit down,” she
said, gesturing at the spare chair just feet from her own. “Thank you 
so much for taking some time to sit with us—it means the world to me.” 

“I'd been wanting to, but we've been a little busy up ‘til now. I know
how incredibly lonely it can be to someone in your position. I mean, 
this,” she said, thrusting her outstretched hand towards the door, 
“this is my job, my career—but this,” she kindly gestured towards the 
patient, “this is your life. So, I wish I had more time to spend like 
this, but it usually doesn't work out that way. Now that it has, I'm 
only too happy to.” 

Her answer drew the slightest of smiles from the woman. 

“So,” she the nurse continued, “how did you find out? 

"Find out? About?" 

"I'm sorry, the accident." 

She looked down at her lap then adoringly at her husband lying quietly
prone beside her. "I remember so clearly," she began, her eyes welling 
with tears. "You know, I can remember two weeks ago like it was two 
minutes, but sometimes I can't remember what I did half an hour ago" 

"You're not alone," said the nurse, trying to lighten the moment a bit. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I never asked your name?" she
asked, momentarily sidestepping the remainder of her story. 

The nurse smiled as she extended her hand. "My full name is Persephone,
but please, call me Percy." The pair shared a warm handshake. "A 
delight to meet you Percy. I'm Brenda. Were your parents fans of Greek 
mythology?" 

"Daddy is. Turns out I'm a daddy's girl anyways, so he didn't need an
extravagant name to win my affection," she smiled. 

"But it's a beautiful name!" Brenda effused. 

"Thank you very much." 

"Oh please, I'd talk about your name all day if meant having company,
not to take anything away from your name, mind you." 

Percy chuckled. "It's quite alright. It usually makes for some
interesting conversation, I assure you." 

"I imagine," Brenda said. The two sat still for a moment, only the
distant chirp of the phone at the nurses' station passed between them. 
Brenda seemed to slump a bit in her chair, though her right hand never 
left her husbands. 

"I apologize if I was too personal before, you know, asking about the .
. ." Percy started. 

"No, no, not at all!" Brenda seemed to spring to life again,
straightening her posture. "I suppose I stepped off the beaten path for 
a bit on purpose." 

"If it's too hard to talk about you really don't . . ." Brenda waved her
off. "It's okay, really. I don't mind. I really haven't had anyone to 
talk to about it, so it'll be good for me to get it out." 

"If you're sure," Percy questioned. Brenda nodded and smiled. "So," she
began with a deep exhalation, "where was I?" 

"I asked how you found out, and you said you remembered it clearly." 

"Yes, absolutely. I'd been stewing—well, fuming actually—over an
argument we'd had about an hour before. We rarely argue, but this one 
was pretty stupid, and he knew it. But for some reason I wouldn't let 
it go. He tried apologizing but I kept at him. I guess I was trying to 
prove to myself I had won the battle." Brenda swallowed hard; her 
throat felt tight. "He was beyond frustrated. We barked at each other 
for a few minutes then he stormed out of the house and into the garage. 
I didn't follow him right away, thinking he'd come back to fight some 
more, and when he didn't I went after him. I opened the garage door 
just as he started the car." She paused and the room again felt more 
like a library than a hospital. 

"He looked right at me, then the car lurched into reverse and he sped
out of the driveway. I was so angry at him, I think more because I felt 
I didn't get to say everything I wanted. In retrospect I said more than 
I needed." Brenda drew a heavy breath. "Just over an hour later I got a 
call—" 

"From the police?" 

"Yeah. I froze, or rather it seemed like everything around me froze. I
couldn't speak. The officer had to keep saying "ma'am . . . ma'am". 
Next thing I knew I was here, mad as hell at myself for letting it 
happen, for not listening." 

"Brenda, you're human. It's not your fault." Percy grabbed her hand in
reassurance as her lip began quivering. "It is my fault. It was an 
incredibly pointless argument. He wouldn't be here if—I only would have 
let it go." 

For the first time since arriving at the hospital, she cried in front of
somebody. The staff had been gracious enough to allow her to stay 
overnights, and it was during those dark, fretful nights she had cried 
herself to sleep—alone. Percy stood slowly, pulling Brenda up with her, 
hoping a little com-passion might lessen the pain her sobs shook to the 
surface. 

"Brenda . . . hey, things are going to be fine," Percy assured her.
Brenda backed away after a minute, accepting a tissue from the nurse. 
"I know they will," she said through sniffles. "Want to hear another 
quick story?" 

The nurse gave her hand another comforting squeeze. "Sure." 

Brenda regained her composure and once again took her all too familiar
seat. "We'd been dating for a while, and one night we went to a 
movie—the name of which I've never remembered—afterwards went to a 
local diner to get a bite to eat. He seemed nervous all night, so I 
finally asked him what was wrong. "Nothing," he says. Of course I knew 
better, so instead of saying anything I just sat there and looked at 
him. He stammered and stalled, tried talking in circles." She lapsed 
briefly to draw the backs of her fingers across his cheek with the 
lightness of a feather. 

"Took him half his chocolate malt to work up the courage to tell me,"
she continued, smiling. 

"Tell you—what?" 

Brenda let the moment linger, just long enough to im-merse herself in
the memory. "That he loved me." 

Percy giggled. "In its own way, that's kinda sweet," she said. 

"It was, but what he did next was, well . . ." Brenda stopped and looked
directly into Percy's eyes. "We've been married over twenty years, 
Percy, and this is one of the fondest memories I have." Percy sat 
motionless, a study in attentiveness. 

"He reached into his pocket and drew out a one dollar bill, then looked
up and smiled at me." Putting her hands parallel to the floor and 
slowly moving them apart, she continued. "He placed it on the table, 
back side up, and smoothed it out, then took a pen and wrote his name 
on it. He was so nervous," she grinned, "his hands visibly shook." 

"Poor thing!" 

Brenda pointed at the edge of a dollar bill she'd placed in his hand.
"He folded the dollar twice, then handed it to me and said—and I quote— 
"No matter where I may travel, or what may happen, so long as you keep 
this I will always come back to you. This I promise." " 

Percy clasped her hands together and dropped them to her lap. "And
you've always kept that dollar bill with you, haven't you?" Brenda 
nodded slowly as she tried to blink away resurgent tears. 

"It's so easy to take for granted that someone will always be there, or
they'll always return," Brenda said with a timorous crack in her voice. 
"But I'll tell you, ever since that evening, every time he's traveled 
I've pulled that bill out of my purse and kept it, somehow, on my 
person, until he returned—and always has." 

Looking up at Percy again, eyes brimming and glistening from tears, she
finished. "He promised me, Percy. He's never once broken his promise to 
me. That's how I know he'll be okay. He'll come back to me." Silent 
tears began their graceful procession down her rosy cheeks. 

Percy leaned forward in her chair and gently brushed Brenda's bangs
aside. "You've made a believer out of me," she said warmly. "Why don't 
you go to the sink and splash some water on your face, or shower if you 
want. You'll feel better, I'm sure. I'll go check in at the station 
real quick then come right back, okay?" 

Brenda nodded in agreement. "You're right. I'll freshen up a bit." As
the pair stood Percy placed her right arm around Brenda and hugged her. 
"Like you said, he promised. Hang in there, hun."  Brenda grinned 
sheepishly and patted her hand, "Thanks." 

The two parted ways at the door as Percy headed for the nurses station
and Brenda turned on the light in the small bathroom. It wasn't roomy, 
but certainly functional, with a small shower stall, toilet, and sink 
with vanity mirror. Brenda looked in the mirror and traced the dark 
circles under her eyes with her fingertips, then turned the cold water 
knob on the faucet. Water splashed playfully upon the white ceramic 
sink. She bent over and cupped her hands, letting them fill with brisk 
cold water, then splashed it upon her face. After soaping up her hands 
she washed her face then rinsed it clean and turned off the water. She 
reached for the towel as the last of the water trickled down the drain. 


The nurse's raised voice split the moment of calm. "Brenda, you're
needed—now!" she yelled, lacking poise or any nuance of calm. She 
wasn't certain if it was panicked or just racing with excitement; in 
either case, it was urgent. Brenda scurried around the corner of the 
bathroom door, towel in hand and hurriedly drying her face, to find 
Percy quickly checking monitor readings and looking into his pupils. 

His eyes had opened, and he lay fully awake and conscious. She threw the
towel on the bed and rushed towards him. 

"I have to get the doctor. I'll be right back!" Percy ex-claimed. Her
feet didn't wait for her mouth to finish. She was out the door in more 
than a hurry. Brenda had to stifle every urge, consciously will every 
muscle not to lean over the bed and embrace him tightly—intravenous 
tubes and miscellaneous wires hung like a loose web around him. She 
locked her eyes to his, tears quietly rolling down her cheeks, then 
with extreme care, cupped both her hands around his and leaned over to 
tenderly kiss his forehead. "I knew you'd come back," she whispered. 

Percy reappeared not sixty seconds later. "Doctor will be right here,"
she stated softly. Brenda waved her over to the side of the bed where 
she was standing. Percy quickly stepped over and Brenda threw her arms 
around her, squeezing as tightly as she could. "Thank you," she sobbed, 
"thank you so much." 

"But it wasn't me, or the doctor, who brought him about," Percy
explained. "It was you." The doctor raced around the corner, white lab 
coat swirling behind him, then froze as he reached the foot of the 
bed—the three of them stood speechless, watching a miracle in bloom. 

His eyes intently followed his hand as he weakly raised it up then
turned it over and slowly uncurled his fingers. The dollar bill within 
lay in stark contrast to his pale skin. Brenda delicately picked it up 
and slowly unfolded it, then respect-fully handed it to Percy. 

"But, I don't understand," the nurse mumbled. 

"Look at it." Brenda whispered. 

Percy carefully grasped the bill between her thumbs and forefingers
handling it as if it were a newborn. She smiled and pointed at her 
husband's name scrawled on the back: Daron. "Just like you said." 
Brenda motioned for her to turn it over. 

On the face, a first and last name were written: one clearly in her
husband's handwriting—her first name, Brenda. The second had different 
penmanship. Percy pointed to the second name. 

"I added that the night of our wedding," Brenda whispered. 

Percy read the name aloud. "Brenda Carty." Then, leaning over, she
slowly pushed the dollar partially under Daron's hand. "Your wife never 
lost faith, Mr. Carty. She was here the whole time." She looked up as 
the doctor gestured for them to leave the room. 

"We'll leave you two alone for a few minutes," he stated smiling
ear-to-ear, then nodded in the direction of the door at Percy. 

As she crossed the threshold Brenda called out. "Persephone . . ." 

The nurse turned around. Yes?" 

"Brenda looked at her husband first, then back up at her. "Daron and I
would love to have you join us sometime at the diner, you know, when 
things are settled." 

Percy practically beamed as she broke into a huge smile. "I would love
to. Oh, and Mr. Carty—this time, the malt is on me," she added with a 
wink. 


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