The Egg Said Nothing - Caris O'Malley [9]
She fished a notepad out of her apron. “What’ll it be?” she asked with a slight Texas accent.
“Uh…” I stammered, looking beyond the waitress for a sign of the girl.
“What’s the matter?” She crossed her arms dramatically. Her pen waved like a fan between her fingers as she gave me an exasperated look.
“I’m looking for someone,” I croaked.
“Looking for who?” She turned around and ran her eyes over the entirety of the establishment. “Ain’t more than a handful of people here.”
“Well, waiting for someone, actually,” I replied. Then I exhaled, realizing that the universe was not going to change just because I wanted it to. “The other waitress. The one who usually works at night.”
“She quit. Can I get you something while you wait?” she asked, a little more patiently. “Could be a long time.”
“Coffee, I guess.”
“Coming right up,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen. I suddenly felt tired. This whole thing was going to be a waste. The effort, it seemed, was just too much.
I laid my head down on the table and closed my eyes. The tabletop was cool against my cheek, and it felt good to just stop moving. It seemed all I had been doing was moving from place to place, from emotion to emotion. I had experienced ranges of feeling I didn’t even know I had.
A thin plastic box with some weight to it fell onto the tabletop. I looked up to see the waitress—my waitress—standing there, covered insulated paper cup in her hand. She set the cup down in front of me. “It’s just a little cold, I think.”
I looked into her eyes, not believing what I was seeing. “That lady I just talked to said you quit.”
She swung down into the seat across from me. “I did,” she said nonchalantly.
I was starting to feel as though I was losing touch with everything real. “So, what are you doing here?”
“I thought you’d be back tonight. Seemed a pretty sure thing.” She tugged at a strand of hair in front of her face and twirled it in her fingers, eyeing it carefully. She let it fall and blew it away from her mouth.
“I…” I didn’t know what to say. To admit is to go out on a limb, and limbs get sort of thin the farther away you get from the trunk.
“Right. You come for the pie. And the coffee,” she said sarcastically. “But you never touch any of it.”
I felt my face get warm. “Ah, yeah. That’s about it.”
“Can I be honest with you?” she asked, sounding serious.
“Yes,” I said.
“I think you like me. I think I can tell. I brought you this pie and coffee because you don’t like what’s here.” She paused, gesturing with her hands toward her offerings. “And you look really familiar. Like I used to know you or something. What’s your name?”
It seemed like such a basic question, one we should be past by now. But I was also dying to know hers. To have a word in my vocabulary to indicate what she was.
“Manny,” I said.
“I’m Ashley.” She extended her hand across the table. “Want some pie?”
“Yes,” I said, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life. “What kind?”
“You’ve never cared before. I don’t see why it should matter now.” She unrolled a napkin, sending the utensils inside scattering across the table. She picked up a fork and stabbed at the pie. Pulling up a forkful of pinkish purple goo, she brought it to her mouth.
“Point taken.” I reached across the table and picked up the spoon lying in front of her. I jabbed into the hole she had made and pulled a glob into my own mouth. The sweetness and the tartness attacked my tongue like breath must hit the lungs of someone saved from drowning. I lifted the paper cup and took a sip. “This is hot chocolate.”
“Yeah, I hate coffee,” Ashley said.
“Me, too,” I admitted.
“You do? Why do you always order it?”
“You never gave me a menu. I had to guess,” I said. I searched her