The Truth About That Summer

ninety

The air is heavy with grease, hot and sticky, the thickness that comes with constantly frying bacon and sausage coating every inch of the old diner. As soon as I walk through the door, the tattered bell jingling overhead, my skin is coated in that familiar dewy feeling.

My stomach gurgles loudly, sweet, grilled muffins and towering stacks of buttery pancakes, savory omelets and peppered hash browns assaulting my empty belly.

I stop just inside the door, inhaling the delicious aroma so deeply that my eyes flutter closed. I open them again, the noise of the diner - coffee brewing, forks clanging, eggs sizzling - bringing me back to the moment.

A moment I've pushed off for far too long.

The diner isn't too full. I came later than the normal breakfast rush, after I helped Dad and Mom get Grams settled back at her place. They'll be staying with her for a few days. Where I'll go next... I'm not sure.

But I do know where I want to be right now.

The table I was looking for, hoping for, is empty. I cross the diner quickly, settling into the cracked booth and tucking myself way in deep, till my arm is touching the warm glass window that allows me to overlook the street.

My favorite spot.

The old menu, worn and faded, is sitting right in front of me, but I push it away, already sure of what I want. Instead I focus my gaze outside, to the boys playing outside of the tackle shop across the street. The guy in a baseball hat taking a picture of his girlfriend in her new sunglasses.

By the time the young waitress comes by, her deep brown skin slick with sweat and tight, dark curls bouncing, I've gone through every possible distraction. I'm simply staring ahead of me, the empty booth staring back.

"And what can I get for you today, ma'am?"

Her voice makes me jump. I have a hard time turning my head to meet her gaze.

"I'm sorry, are you waiting for someone?" She tries again, glancing between me and the empty booth across from me.

Always, I answer silently. Forever.

"No," I blink at her, finally. "I'll have the chocolate chip pancake stack, please."

"Sure thing. And would you like three, seven, or ten pancakes on that?" Her pen scribbles across the little notepad.

Once upon a time, I demolished a seven-stack. I won't be able to even finish three now.

"Three is perfect."

"Great," She snaps her gum and pivots away, glancing in my direction once more to add, "I'll send some coffee over."

I nod even though her back is already to me, checkered dress swirling around her as she flits table to table.

A quick glance around the diner makes the emptiness across from me even more unpleasant. The place isn't full, but every occupied table has more than one person sitting there.

A mother and her young daughter, wearing a princess dress. An elderly couple, hands shaking as they hold them across the table. A group of high schoolers laughing loudly over their phones. A few middle aged men discussing the morning's fishing.

Staring in front of me once again, the red faux-leather booth cushion my only companion, my eyes get misty. Mistier and mistier until the tears are welled at my lash line and I don't hear any of the diner sounds anymore, can't focus on anything else besides how long it's taken me to do this.

And this, the way it feels to sit here, in this booth, completely alone, is why. There was supposed to be so many more weekend mornings spent here, so many chocolate chip pancakes to be eaten.