Something Missing_ A Novel - Matthew Dicks [60]
Taken aback, Martin had managed an uninspired “See you tomorrow.”
“It’s a date then?” Jillian had asked.
“Yeah,” Martin had replied, less enthusiastically than he would have liked in retrospect. “A date.”
The next morning Martin had arrived at the diner wearing a tie and sports jacket, the first time he had worn anything other than jeans and a T-shirt to breakfast. Jillian had commented on how handsome he looked as soon as he was seated on his favorite stool, and she had followed up the compliment with a kiss on the cheek, Martin’s first from her. He had seen Jillian greet other customers in this manner, usually regulars like Jeff (but never Bob), but Martin knew that his kiss was different. The softness of her lips and the way she had leaned into him ever so slightly had spoken volumes of her affection for him.
The date had gone splendidly. Although Jillian was busy with a restaurant full of customers, she had managed to spend a few extra moments with Martin whenever she could, and Martin had assisted her by consuming five cups of coffee in less than an hour, necessitating her frequent return for refills. Conversation had been light despite her frequent visits to his section of the counter, but he did manage to ask her how she was feeling and if she had any plans for the evening.
“A hot bath and then me and Betty are scheduled for some television on the couch,” she had replied with a warm smile.
Martin had assumed that Betty was Jillian’s cat or dog but was happy to discover just recently that Betty was actually her longtime roommate. Martin couldn’t stand dogs or cats (too unpredictable for his liking) and had dreaded the day that the two would need to broach the subject of pets. But about a month ago Betty had made an appearance in the diner, and Martin had overheard Jillian introducing her roommate to Mr. and Mrs. Sheppard, Quaker regulars. He waited for a similar introduction and had been surprised when he didn’t receive one. It had been a busy day, however, and he and Betty had been sitting about eight stools apart.
Martin watched as Freddy, the thankfully bald fry cook (Martin wretched at just the thought of hair in his food), added blueberries to the pancakes that he knew were his. Freddy was the fry cook at the Quaker Diner every day but Monday, and Martin liked him a lot. The two had never spoken, but Martin loved the routine and cadence that Freddy had developed and thoroughly enjoyed watching the man work. Every move that Freddy made was with purpose. No steps were ever wasted in the preparation of an order, and repetition was the hallmark of everything the fry cook did. Eggs always cracked on the same side of the grill. Shells always tossed into the same bucket. Hash browns stirred between every order. Counter spaces wiped almost incessantly. Thanks to Freddy Martin knew exactly what he was getting when he placed his order with Jillian, because every order was prepared in exactly the same way every time.
Eight minutes later Jillian delivered a stack of blueberry pancakes to Martin, and fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee after that, Martin was ready to leave his tip and pay for his meal. Tipping Jillian had always been awkward for Martin. He wanted to tip her well every day, above the customary 17 percent that he tipped most serving persons. But at the same time, tipping her above and beyond what she deserved felt wrong to Martin, like he was trying to purchase her affection. In the end, he decided to round Jillian’s tip up to the nearest dollar, something he never did under ordinary circumstances. This decision had also made things easier for Martin, since the Quaker Diner was one of the few restaurants he frequented that did not accept credit cards. Paying with his Visa allowed Martin to calculate his tips to the penny, which he usually did. Prior to his relationship with Jillian, Martin had been forced to fill his pockets with change prior to coming to the diner, in order to tip properly.
Martin lay two dollar bills down beside his plate