What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [17]
Vernon ate his cherry pie with contentment, taking a side glance out to the sidewalk. He appeared in no hurry, but he also kept his head bent, and Arlene engaged him no further in conversation. Cal kept reading every last line of the local news and even flipped back to the front page to start the task all over again. Lunch was approaching, but for the time being, Arlene let the girls in the back hover around their Modern Screen while she prepped some of the tables for the lunch rush.
When the man and the woman walked in, Arlene noticed first the woman’s brilliant yellow blouse. It was difficult not to think of the deep yellow tucked in the corner of a children’s drawing, an extraordinary sun, and she knew instantly that this woman was not from town. Even at a distance, she could tell the blouse was expensive.
“A table?” the man said when Arlene stood looking at them, a cleaning rag in hand.
“Yes,” she answered. “This way, please.” She pointed them to a booth she had just cleaned, holding the cleaning rag behind her back as she reached to the counter for two menus.
“Is it too late for breakfast?” the man asked.
“Not at all,” Arlene said. “I’ll get you both some coffee.”
“Tea for me,” said the woman.
“Yes, ma’am.”
When Arlene walked away, the woman’s voice lingered with her, its lilt and melody. The woman had looked up, just briefly, but it was only now, back in the kitchen, that Arlene set down two cups and realized the woman was not from the town at all. She looked over at the other waitresses, still not bored with their Modern Screen, and it was when she saw the magazine cover that she thought of that other world over the mountains, over in Los Angeles, and knew that the woman had come from there. She wondered if the girls would’ve recognized the woman the minute she opened the door.
Her realization unspooled an unease. She had a habit of watching cups and glasses when they were filled to their tops, trying to walk as smoothly as possible so none of the liquid would spill over and make a mess. But this time, heading back to the table, the brightness of the woman’s yellow blouse brought Arlene to near distraction, and she had to set the cups down on the counter before the couple could see, and swipe the edges clean where some of the tea had spilled. The couple didn’t notice her and neither did Vernon or Cal, whose backs were turned to the booths. Vernon, in fact, was rising and reaching for his wallet to pay his familiar tab.
“Bye, now,” Vernon said, and stepped out the door, just as Arlene was setting the cups down. She was too focused on setting them down and not spilling again that by the time she could raise her head to return his good-bye, the door had already closed.
“What can I get you?” she asked. Without hesitation, the man ordered a full breakfast, but the woman took her time, her eyes down on the menu, and while she did so, Arlene looked closer at her yellow blouse. It was made of silk, right down to the round crafted buttons.
“Just toast and tea,” the woman said.
Arlene didn’t bother to write it down and took their menus. “Pardon me,” she said, “but does anyone ever tell you that you look like—”
The woman interrupted her with a wave of her hand and a shy, almost nervous smile. “Oh, no! Not in the least.”
“You mean no one tells you?”
“No, I mean I don’t think I look like her at all.”
Cal turned around in the commotion, and the woman gave him a glance but brought her eyes right back to Arlene. She held them there, smiling politely, but offered no response. She wouldn’t take her eyes off Arlene. Finally, she asked, “Is there something wrong?”
“No, ma’am,” said Arlene. But as she walked away, she muttered, “The spitting image,” regretting it instantly. The words came out low, almost under her breath, maybe even with a note of unintended hostility—here was the perception about her all over again, the way she carried herself, but now with people who didn’t even live in the city. She wasn’t a mean, cheerless person at all, just exhausted, unable to summon the spirited