The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [7]
I moved to my bed and rebuilt the egg’s nest. The heater went back to the top of its stack of boxes, set on low. I gathered the egg and its blanket from the couch and tucked them in.
Searching the floor, I found an unwashed button-down and a pair of jeans. After dressing quickly, I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Not much of anything.
I picked my keys up off the table, walked into the bedroom and gave the egg a kiss on its shell. I rotated it and left, locking the door several times behind me.
When I got to the street, the sun was starting to set. I had slept much later than I thought. Cutting away from the main thoroughfares, I took to the alleyways that run parallel to it, through nearby residential neighborhoods. The makeshift roadways were devoid of life, beautifully empty like a junkie on detox.
I stalked through the internal organs of the neighborhoods, one after the other, like a ghost. I glanced through windows and took note of everyday human life. As I walked, I realized where I was. Looking to my right, I saw Pete’s.
Inside, the waitress seemed concerned. Not for me, but for her safety. She bit the inside of her lower lip, betrayed only by the subtlest of movements in her soft flesh. Her eyes jerked back and forth between me and the path away from me. Her breath came slowly and deliberately, like an animal listening for a predator’s footsteps.
“Just coffee and pie, please.”
“Um, what kind?” she asked, relieved that I’d said something for which she was prepared. Her hands quickly scribbled on her notepad, too many words for what I had requested.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said and ran both hands over my hair. Staring at the table, I listened to her footsteps fade away. I didn’t look up.
For the first time, I smelled her. I can’t describe the smell. Flowery, yet somehow musty, like a beautiful woman with the soul of an old book. The plate slid in front of me. Cherry pie. She set a mug down and filled it with coffee.
“Anything else?” she asked, somewhat nervously. Her hand gripped the coffee pot.
“No,” I said, looking up at her. I met her pale eyes with my own. She looked back, and I thought I saw a hint of something other than revulsion behind her self-protectively glassy stare. As though she might have the capacity to understand what I felt. She gave me a tight-lipped half smile and broke the connection, walking away quickly.
I didn’t bother to pick up the fork. I wasn’t going to eat. I didn’t blow the steam off the coffee. I wasn’t going to drink.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty and laid it out on the table, anchoring it with the mug. I slid across the bench seat and stood on weak, wobbly legs. Turning my body towards the door, I started my move, walking slowly, deliberately, determined to appear, even from the outside, like I had a place to be.
Pausing in front of the door, I stood for thirty seconds or so. Through the glass, everything looked better. The place my body occupied suddenly felt cheap and transient, a temporary dwelling in a disposable world. I caught a faint reflection of my own dark brown eyes, and that was enough for me to push forward, to leave my confines and move on.
“Hey,” a soft voice said from behind me. Rapid footsteps approached. I stopped and turned halfway. I was confused. The waitress stood there, bathed in her interesting smells, looking like she just stepped out of another world. The light from the diner glowed behind her.
“I left the money on the table,” I said. My eyes fell on her shoulder—covered in the white cloth of her shirt—then moved up to her face.
“You forgot your receipt.” She extended her hand with all of its perfectly sculpted fingers. I wanted to reach out and take the slip of paper, to graze her knuckles with the pads of my fingers, just to touch her skin.
“I really don’t need it,” I said with a sigh. Her brow relaxed, as though she was bracing herself for